


I Can Dream, Can't I?

by WednesdayGilfillian



Series: I Can Dream, Can't I? [1]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: (They Totally Will), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Turnadette - Freeform, Will They/Won't They?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-09-23 23:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20348557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdayGilfillian/pseuds/WednesdayGilfillian
Summary: After realising the depth of her feelings for the Doctor, Sister Bernadette returns to Nonnatus House as Nurse Shelagh Mannion. Then she waits for Doctor Turner to act. Surely he will...?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to @thatginchygal and @fourteen-teacups for seeing me through the writing of this fic, with their superb beta skills, squees, and kind encouragement. I'm so grateful to the both of you! <3
> 
> Just to clarify the point at which we're diverging from canon: Sister Bernadette doesn't get TB in this universe. That doesn't mean everything will be simple, however...

Sister Bernadette could name the precise moment she’d realised she was fooling herself. She had told herself she was glad – not just glad but _relieved_ – that, after that moment in the parish hall, Doctor Turner had kept his distance. She had told herself she admired his swift, if slightly awkward, return to professional conduct. And that working alongside him had always been a pleasure. (Which was perfectly true. It had.)

And if, when they were forced to work together by Sister Julienne’s absence, she found she couldn’t regret it… If she couldn’t help thinking of the success with the X-ray van as ‘their’ triumph… Well, that was only professional fellow-feeling.

But when, after that long day, he had called her to his surgery – had asked to see _her_, specifically – there was no denying the fierce joy in her chest. The pride that he so valued her opinion. And the feeling underneath that – which was, undeniably, more than professional admiration. A great deal more.

She heard it in her voice, as clear as day. To her own ears at least, it was almost embarrassingly obvious.

“Doctor Turner… What a day we had!”

She wondered how she’d deluded herself for so long.

Somehow, she got through the conversation – about how well her posters had spread the word – and then retreated to her cell. There, she allowed herself to truly think, for the first time since it had happened, of the parish hall and what had passed between them.

It was impossible to determine when it had started.

And, although it was surely vain to dwell on it…there _was_ the thought that she had been enough that, just for a moment, this good man hadn’t been able to help himself. (And he _was_ a good man, there could be no doubt. Not a religious man, she knew, but undeniably a good one.) He had been nothing but professional ever since.

All of this left her with a problem. Perhaps the reason she hadn’t recognised it earlier was that what she was experiencing _wasn’t_ a crisis of faith. That was what, before they’d left the convent, she and her Sisters had been warned against, and watched for. But her faith was steadfast as ever, and unwavering. It was rather her _vocation_ – her place in the world – that Sister Bernadette had come to question.

It was a question that could not be resolved alone – and certainly not in the little time Sister Bernadette had between births, clinic, and Compline. So she had left Nonnatus House, rather abruptly, returning to the Mother House to seek solace and guidance in that familiar place.

If some part of her had hoped that, away from the bustle of Poplar – and more particularly, away from Doctor Turner – she might find her resolve returning, this was not to be.

And yet, she wasn’t disappointed. Not really. Nor did she feel precisely guilty, beyond a few initial pangs. As painful as it was to consider leaving a part of herself behind, she _knew_ that what she was feeling was not an affront to her faith. How could it be, when her faith called her every day to live among and serve so many different kinds of people? If laypeople truly were no lesser in God’s sight, then she could be one too, and still serve Him. Surely.

That was more or less what Mother Jesu said, though admittedly in tones rather more cryptic.

And it was reassuring too to know that, even so far away from Doctor Turner, her feelings and questions were the same. This was not _entirely_ about him. Or, it was, but…it might as easily have not been. 

After much prayer and reflection, and many long walks in the surrounding countryside, she had gone to Mother Jesu with her decision. Then there was a phone call from Mother Jesu to Sister Julienne, the contents of which Sister Bernadette could only guess at. (She had given Mother Jesu only the broadest outline of recent events, and Mother Jesu had not pressed her.)

Sister Julienne didn’t want her to feel under any obligation, but stressed that – if she felt able – she would be more than welcome to stay on at Nonnatus House, as a nurse. This was a kindness Sister Bernadette felt almost guilty for accepting – and guiltier still for not being entirely surprised when it was offered. But if Sister Julienne’s kindness and grace were almost predictable, then that could surely only say good things about her.

So, with the return of a ring and the signing of some papers, she was Sister Bernadette no longer. Now, once again, she was going to be…Shelagh.

Her old name… She had never really forsaken it. How you were _really_ supposed to let go of the name your parents had given you at birth, Sister Bernadette had never honestly understood. And now she had it back, along with a suitcase of rather out-of-date clothes – as though her name had been tucked in there along with the blouses.

So now it was Shelagh Mannion who sat on the bus, heading back to Poplar with her hands clasped primly in her lap. She would be _Nurse_ Mannion, soon, when she returned to Nonnatus. She would have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t nervous. She would also have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t excited.

Exactly how the next days, weeks, months would look was uncertain. But now Shelagh felt free, at last, to seize them with both hands.

\--

Patrick Turner sighed as he climbed the steps to Nonnatus House. The place really did seem darker these days – and it wasn’t just the oncoming autumn.

Sister Bernadette had left, abruptly, a few weeks ago. She had returned to the Mother House, according to the other Sisters. That was all anyone said on the subject – though the nurses said how much they missed her.

Patrick missed her, too. More than he could ever acceptably say.

And he had a horrible, unspoken near-certainty that _he_ had been the reason she had left.

It was amazing how you could mean to do something, and not mean to do it, at precisely the same time. The human will was odd that way.

He had told himself, the day of the Summer Fete, that he only meant to see she was alright. Then he had told himself he would only check the wound. Then her hand was in his, and then…well, then…

To say nothing of her vows, he had undoubtedly, quite flagrantly crossed the boundary that was supposed to exist between doctor and patient. But had she _been_ his patient, that day in the parish hall? She hadn’t sought out his medical attention, though she’d accepted it… She hadn’t sought out _any_ of his attentions. He had followed her.

Patrick groaned, and cursed himself inwardly. He was a cad.

And was it possible that, in his weakness, he had broken her vows _for her_? With just a kiss on the palm? Surely the Church would recognise the difference between something _she_ had done, and something he’d done to her… If she told the Church at all, of course. And if she didn’t, she’d be carrying it alone.

He only hoped she hadn’t left to do some kind of penance. If anyone ought to be doing that, it was him.

And even now, even with that guilty thought, he couldn’t _entirely_ regret what had passed between them. Which probably meant he was worse even than he’d acknowledged.

_“I’m not turning my back on you because of you. I’m doing it because of Him.”_

Patrick had thought about that. He had thought about that a lot. But very likely she had just been letting him down gently. That would be like her…always considerate of others’ feelings. And in the weeks afterwards, once he’d made it clear he had himself back under control, it was _then_ she had been warmer with him again. Around the time of their X-ray van triumph. Their old friendship had resumed, once and _because_ he had re-earned her trust. And he ought to be happy with that. More than happy. Honestly grateful.

Anyway, there was no point in thinking on any of that now. She had gone to Chichester, and he would respect that. He would respect her vows, and her distance.

Lost in his thoughts, the doctor nearly collided with Sister Julienne as he rounded a corner in the hall.  
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Sister.”  
“Not to worry, Doctor. Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I was just about to make a small announcement, and it’s easiest if I only have to do so once.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where most of the nurses and Sister Monica Joan sat with cups of tea around the table.  
“If I may have your attention for a moment, there is something I’d like to say.”   
The nurses all looked up at Sister Julienne, and Sister Monica Joan put down her cake fork.

“You will all, I’m sure, have been keeping Sister Bernadette in your prayers these past weeks. And I am just as sure you’ll be glad to hear that she will soon return to us.”  
Nurses Lee and Franklin turned at once to each other, beaming. Patrick felt his stomach leap, and hoped his feelings did not show on his face.  
“However,” went on Sister Julienne, delicately, “she will be returning to us under a different name. After much reflection – and in a choice I feel compelled to say I may not understand but _do support_ – she has decided to leave the Order of Saint Raymond Nonnatus.”

Patrick felt as though the linoleum floor had fallen out beneath him. Mercifully, Sister Monica Joan and the young nurses were all too astonished to spare him a glance. Sister Julienne took in their range of responses, and continued resolutely with her speech.

“She will be coming back to live and work with us as ‘Nurse Mannion’ – her name from before she took her vows. I’m sure I need hardly say that we must all do everything we can to help Nurse Mannion, and make smooth her transition out of the religious life. She is our friend and our colleague, and we must support her – and not trouble her with questions about her choice.”

Nurse Miller nodded, still looking rather stunned. Nurse Franklin was clearly trying – and failing – not to look extremely curious. Sister Monica Joan only looked grieved, and bewildered. Sister Julienne smiled down at her compassionately, and extended a hand.

“Come, Sister. Let us go a little early to chapel, and pray for our friend.”  
Without speaking, Sister Monica Joan got slowly to her feet, and allowed Sister Julienne to lead her.   
“Thank you all for your attention. If you have any questions before Nurse Mannion’s arrival, I would ask that you address them, privately, to me.”

Patrick stood for a few seconds, stunned, in their wake – and then hurried after the two Sisters.

“Err, Sister Julienne, just – just one thing. What is Nurse Mannion’s Christian name? S-so that I can update my records.”

Sister Julienne’s expression was polite, but inscrutable.

“…Her given name is Shelagh.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stepping off the bus in Poplar, Shelagh was almost surprised to find that it looked no different. So much had changed for _her_, in a few weeks’ absence. Suitcase in hand, she found herself walking slower than usual, even though she was nervously aware that anyone on the street might recognise her. Word would get out before _too_ long, of course… But if she could just settle in and unpack her suitcase first, she’d be grateful.

So why wasn’t she hurrying, head bowed, to Nonnatus House? Why was she almost loitering on street corners? _Because_, as soon as she stepped through the doors of Nonnatus, her new situation would be real. She would be Nurse Mannion, under everyone’s eye. The nun-turned-nurse who inexplicably renounced her vows, and gave up her religious vocation.

But just for now, just for a few minutes between the bus stop and her destination, she _wasn’t_ Nurse Mannion, or Sister Bernadette. She was simply Shelagh, for the first time in years. And though she_ wanted_ to work – had never been happy except when feeling useful – surely she was allowed to indulge in that freedom, just briefly?

The change from her bus fare jingled in her purse. She could allow herself one small purchase…

“A packet of Henleys, please.”

The man behind the shop counter didn’t seem to recognise her, though he did give her out-of-fashion skirt suit a pitying glance. Shelagh left the shop feeling – ridiculously – almost like a sneaky fourteen-year-old. But she was hardly a teenager, and buying cigarettes was well within her rights now, even if it did feel slightly illicit.

She didn’t even need to smoke them. Not right away. She’d bought them, that was the main thing. They were a sort of talisman, to carry into her new life. Connected with home, with Aberdeenshire, with who she’d used to be…and yes, with a certain doctor, too. She could admit that. She slipped the glossy pack into her pocket.

There was no putting it off any longer. She was expected at Nonnatus House. And she _wanted_ to see everyone again…even though there was an anxious knot in her stomach. After all, she had willingly made this choice, and she would face the repercussions. Sister Julienne, at least, she hoped, would be kind to her.

She rang the bell at the front door, feeling it was no longer her place to walk right in. It was Nurse Lee who answered.  
“Oh! Sist- Nurse! You’re back!”  
She pulled the door wide open and hustled Shelagh inside, with the kind of brisk cheerfulness that people only employ when they’re pretending everything is completely normal.   
“Well, it’s very good to see you! I’ll just fetch Sister Julienne…”

Shelagh waited, feeling uncomfortably like a visitor in what for years had been her home. Nurse Lee always looked so put-together, not a hair out of place. She felt all the more keenly aware of her own sorry appearance, and resolved to buy some more presentable clothes the moment she had the opportunity.

She was pulled from these thoughts by the sound of footsteps in the hall, and looked up to see Sister Julienne hurrying towards her. The older woman’s expression was all warmth.

“Nurse Mannion! _Shelagh_,” she smiled, her very tone of voice affirming the name. “How good to have you back with us. I trust your journey was pleasant?”  
“It was fine, thank you,” Shelagh smiled weakly, feeling unworthy of such a deliberate display of affection. “I hope I haven’t pulled you away from anything more urgent…”  
“Not at all! I do have to see to a few things this afternoon, but I’m sure I have time to see that you’re properly settled back in. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your new sleeping quarters. You will be sharing with Nurse Miller.”

The few personal items she hadn’t taken with her had already been moved from her cell. They waited for her now on her new bedside table, alongside a neatly-made-up bed.  
“It will be different for you, I’m sure, to have to share a room…but Nurse Miller is a most considerate roommate.”  
“I’m sure she is. Thank you, Sister. Thank you for…everything.”  
“Well…I shall leave you to unpack your things.”   
Sister Julienne looked briskly around the room once more, and smiled in apparent contentment. Then her gaze fell on Shelagh again, and her expression softened.  
“We _are_ glad to have you back, my friend.”  
She squeezed Shelagh’s hand once, and departed.

Shelagh looked down at the suitcase on her bed, and felt for a moment that she might burst into tears. But there, she had got through part of it. There would be other, difficult first meetings…but the one with Sister Julienne was, in many ways, the most important. Having her support meant more than Shelagh could easily express.

She had pulled herself together and set to work unpacking, when there came a tentative knock on the open door. Nurse Miller stood, smiling nervously in the doorway, with Nurses Lee and Franklin over either shoulder.  
“I hope we’re not intruding…” Nurse Miller smiled shyly. “We just wanted to say welcome back.”  
Shelagh smiled in mild amusement. Cynthia really was a considerate soul.  
“I don’t think you could possibly intrude in your own room.”  
“Well, maybe not _her_. But then there’s the two of us…” said Trixie, pushing past Cynthia and eagerly settling herself down on a bed. “_We_ have no excuse, except for being sociable.”   
She had the air of a girl at her first slumber party.  
“I’m glad to see _all_ of you,” Shelagh laughingly amended.

She did feel a slight twinge of nervousness, however. How was she supposed to relate to these young women, now? In the past there had always been a barrier between them. And what, if anything, would they ask her?

It transpired that they hardly asked her anything at all. At least, nothing she found difficult to answer. They confirmed that she was happy for them to call her ‘Shelagh’, and caught her up on what had happened while she’d been away. She could tell that all of them were at least slightly curious, but they were keeping that hidden as best they could. She was grateful for it.

As the girls chatted away, she continued to unpack – and Trixie picked up the grey blazer Shelagh had discarded from her skirt suit. She eyed it as one would inspect a slightly off-putting historic curiosity.

“We’ll have to take you shopping the next time you have a day off. It must have been an absolute _age_ since you had new things. Not that _you’re_ – I mean – well, you know what I mean.”   
Cynthia looked as though she’d quite like to descend into the carpet. Jenny simply rolled her eyes.  
“I _do_ need to update my wardrobe,” Shelagh agreed, diplomatically – and Cynthia breathed again.

Trixie held out the blazer at arms’ length, turning it to try and find the label. It was then that something fell out of the pocket, and landed with a flump on the floor.

All four of them stared at the bright red packet of Henleys. Trixie’s mouth had fallen open. Jenny’s and Cynthia’s eyes were wide.

Shelagh felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She felt stupidly as though she’d been caught out at something – when of course she was allowed cigarettes. And it wasn’t as though smoking was an uncommon vice. She bristled slightly, in spite of herself.

“Oh, do close your mouths. I _am_ human…”  
“So we’re _discovering_…” Trixie wasn’t even trying to suppress her glee.   
Shelagh bent quickly to retrieve the cigarettes, and when she stood up again the girls were all on their feet.

“We should leave you to unpack,” said Cynthia, smiling apologetically. “We’re probably getting in your way. But, we’ll see you at dinner?”  
“Yes,” Shelagh breathed, with a smile. “Of course. Thank you for saying hello. I _have_ missed all of you.”

The nurses departed with awkward little smiles, and Shelagh sat down on her new bed. Was she going to feel so very self-conscious at _every_ first meeting? Well, yes, of course she was. Especially… She looked at the packet of Henleys.

Before too long, she would see him. And then… well, then…

Shelagh blushed. She mustn’t get ahead of herself, she knew.

\--

After receiving Sister Julienne’s announcement, Patrick had gone home from Nonnatus in a daze. Now he stood in front of his shaving mirror, facing a new morning on very little sleep.

Sister Bernadette had _left the Order_… Wasn’t ‘Sister Bernadette’ anymore, but Nurse Mannion. And her given name was Shelagh…

It suited her, he thought. Then he remembered that it didn’t matter what he thought.

He had been so resolved, not twenty-four hours ago, to respect her vows and her distance. To put his other feelings aside, and preserve their valuable friendship. But now distance and vows were both melted away, and Patrick felt as though he’d missed a step going down stairs.

He didn’t dare presume the choice she’d made had been for him… That would be the worst kind of hubris. And, he reminded himself firmly, she _had_ seemed relieved when he’d made it clear he wouldn’t pursue her, after the Summer Fete.

And yet…hadn’t there been something? Sometimes when they’d looked at each other, he’d thought… But, no. Perhaps she’d simply been flattered. And God knew why. A man his age…

He shook himself into action and reached for his shaving brush, working the foam into a lather.

How he was supposed to prepare himself for the sight of her, when he couldn’t quite _believe_ he’d be seeing her today, he didn’t know. Would she really be back at Nonnatus? And dressed not in the habit, but in layperson’s clothes? (And if she _was_, how would he manage not to stare?)

He looked at himself again in the mirror, and tried to practise a casual, friendly smile.

“Nurse Mannion.” He tried again. “Nurse Mannion…Nurse…”

He sighed hopelessly, and reached for his razor.

Clinic that day was no less busy than usual. When Patrick arrived, the screens and chairs were all set out, and Nurse Miller was bustling around.

“Good morning,” he smiled, rather distractedly.  
“Morning, Doctor.”  
Patrick glanced around nervously. “Are we a little understaffed this morning?”  
Nurse Miller blinked. “Oh, no, we have the usual number of hands on deck. Nurse was just-”

“I found it! Folded in the pile with the demonstration nappies. Nurse Franklin really ought to be more careful-”

A honey-blonde haired nurse hurried out of the kitchen, a piece of soft cream-coloured fabric in her hands. Realising that Nurse Miller had company, she stopped short.

Patrick’s heart seemed to have stopped, too. It was her.

And she was _beautiful_. Of course she was; she’d always been beautiful. But now Patrick felt as though he’d been hit over the head.

“Nurse Mannion…”

He smiled, and tried not to stare. He should look at her eyes; her eyes were the same as always. Which, he quickly realised, wasn’t any kind of help at all.

“Doctor…hello,” she smiled, awkwardly.  
“It’s good to see you back with us.”  
“It’s good to be back.”

She seemed unable or unwilling to hold his gaze for long, eyes fluttering downwards to the fabric in her hands. She seemed, then, suddenly to remember it.  
“Little Archie Mathers lost his blankie last week,” she said, by way of explanation. “His mother thought he might’ve lost it here. And she was right.”  
Patrick smiled again, forcing a light-hearted tone.  
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be eternally grateful for your returning it. Or at least his mother will.”  
Nurse Mannion smiled at that, genuinely, and he felt his heart somersault.

“Well, I’d better go and let everyone in. And give Master Mathers back his blankie. Thank you, Doctor.”  
“Of course…”

He had no idea what she had thanked him for. He tried to pull himself together, as she departed and Nurse Miller went about her duties. Just how badly had he made a hash of that first meeting? She had seemed uncomfortable, nervous in his presence.

_She probably thought you were going to pounce on her the minute you got her alone. Just because she’s no longer wearing a wimple. And given your track record, who can blame her?_

Patrick squared his jaw and went to shrug on his white coat. He had a job to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Shelagh cringed every time she thought back on her first meeting with Doctor Turner. She hadn’t _meant_ to freeze like a deer in headlights... It was just… She’d built the idea of seeing him up in her head, had thought so much of how it might go…and then suddenly he’d been there in front of her, and she’d frozen.

Perhaps that was hardly surprising. Shelagh had never before felt so very _visible_, in every moment of her daily life. She was realising now how much the habit had worked against that – and not just in the obvious ways. As a religious sister, she had always blended into the background. Respected and useful, but not a figure of interest.

Of course, the nurse’s uniform _also_ made her one of a number, and did confer a certain status. But it was different. Very different indeed.

She had made it through that first clinic, surviving all the curious stares. People were certainly talking…though she tried her best not to overhear them. (Sometimes this involved serious effort, and would have been better aided by a pair of earplugs.)

Some of the littler children seemed to wonder why the nice lady already knew their names – at least until she’d spoken to them for a while. Then, she watched understanding dawn on their faces. The littlest had probably thought that nuns _were_ their habits, and couldn’t exist without them.

Things were no easier on the district rota. Shelagh had spent long minutes on her knees, seeing to Mrs. Cooper’s infected foot, and had thought she might escape without comment. She had just been shutting the clasp on her bag when the old woman looked her up and down.  
“Given up the God-botherin’, ‘ave ya? Wise move. It never did my late sister any good.”

Shelagh tried to remember that Mrs. Cooper was a woman in physical pain as well as grief, and that even if she _had_ meant harm, there must be better sides to her character. (Then Shelagh went and stamped on a cardboard box, just to flatten it and make the place look tidy.)

At least Nonnatus House was a kind of a sanctuary – though even there, she felt all too visible. Getting fitted for her nurse’s uniform had been awkward, alone in the closet with Sister Evangelina. Neither of them had mentioned, though both were keenly aware, why the Sister already knew Shelagh’s measurements and size. Then there was Sister Monica Joan, always looking at her with those sad, penetrating eyes.

If they only knew she hadn’t cast her vows off lightly. They _ought_ to know that, Shelagh thought, privately, with some consternation. Every day, at Matins or Compline, her internal clock was constantly telling her she had somewhere to be – pulling her to structured devotions she no longer had a part in. When she felt this most acutely, she would offer up a silent prayer, and was grateful in these moments to be sharing a room with Cynthia. She might not have felt so comfortable if she had been rooming, say, with Trixie.

But her fellow nurses – Trixie included – were the ones who got her through those first difficult weeks. They chatted away at breakfast and dinner, and as promised, they had taken her shopping. That had required some considerable mental adjustments on Shelagh’s part. For one thing, getting used to spending money. At first it felt wrong and spendthrift to lay down much at once, and for herself. But the girls had persisted, helping her find a few nice simple outfits, and one dress for going out in the evening.

It was this last purchase that she was wearing now, as they readied themselves for an evening’s excursion. Trixie had heard about an upcoming dance, and insisted they all go together.  
“We _have_ to, now that Shelagh can come with us! Four girls out on the town…”  
“If only Chummy were here, then we’d be five. Honestly Shelagh, you should see her at a dart board!”

They had congregated in Jenny and Trixie’s room, which when it came to evenings out was apparently the unofficial headquarters. The girls had let her in on the secret of their stash of gin, and Shelagh had accepted a tiny tipple. She felt as though she needed it.

The glass in her hand, she kept wandering idly back to Trixie’s mirror, as Jenny and Cynthia sat buffing their nails. Trixie looked up from straightening the seam of her tights.

“Do you not _like_ your new dress, Shelagh? You’ve adjusted the belt at least seven times.”  
Shelagh frowned slightly, blushing.  
“It’s not that I don’t _like_ it… It’s just, I don’t know… I’m not sure about the length.”

In fact, she had seized on this at random. It was difficult to express her much vaguer, generalised discomfort at seeing herself as she appeared in the mirror. It wasn’t even _discomfort_, exactly. There was excitement there, too.

“The length?” Trixie looked honestly bewildered. “It’s no shorter than your nurse’s uniform.”  
“No…but that’s regulation. This is a choice.”

And that was what it came down to, Shelagh realised. She was very unused to making choices about how she presented herself to the world. And this dress felt daring – although by Trixie’s standards it was anything but. (She had only just let Shelagh buy it, thinking at first that she should go for something bolder, and less classic.)

“And it’s a perfectly elegant choice. Trust me. Doesn’t she look lovely, you two?”  
“Oh yes,” said Cynthia, sincerely. “That style really suits you.”  
“Absolutely!” Jenny agreed.  
“And I would never have known you had such pretty hair. Well, of course I didn’t. But it’s good for the world at large that we get to see it.”  
Shelagh laughed, blushing again.  
“You know, there _is_ such a thing as too much flattery.”  
“There is?” Trixie tossed her head. “I can’t say I’ve ever experienced it.”  
“Nor have I,” Cynthia laughed, in good-humoured self-deprecation. Jenny nudged her companionably.  
“Anyway,” Trixie turned back to Shelagh, “I expect you’re just out of practice at receiving it.”

After a few finishing touches, they all gathered up their things. Shelagh was silently praying they wouldn’t meet the Sisters in the hall – and by the time they neared the nurse’s station she was so giddy with relief that she almost didn’t notice the person standing there.

“Good evening, Doctor,” Trixie smiled – and Shelagh’s heart dropped.

Doctor Turner stood with his head bowed over a file, but looked up at the greeting. He smiled to see the cheerful group. He had half turned back to the file when his expression changed, and he looked back again, staring.

“Evening, Doctor,” managed Shelagh, her voice sounding strangely distant in her ears.  
“Good evening…”

He smiled again – though it looked like an effort. Shelagh felt herself blushing. She realised belatedly that she had stopped walking, while the others had carried on. Trixie took the few steps back to her, decisively linking their arms.

“Come on! If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the bus – and I am _not_ endangering these heels!”

\--

As the front door closed behind them, Patrick’s hand clenched into a fist.

That dress was going to haunt him, he knew. As if the nurse’s uniform wasn’t enough.

And she had been wearing lipstick, he realised. He really needed _not_ to think about that.

Patrick shoved the file back into its folder, and fought down a faintly sick feeling.

Where had they been going? Not to the pictures, surely. Not all so nicely dressed. Presumably, they were going to a dance… And someone _would_ ask her. Any man with a pulse…

His first, self-destructive thought was to go home via an off-licence. To drown his sorrows in something fairly strong. But he’d hardly drank since his days at medical college, at least not beyond a few glasses at Christmas. When he could be urgently called upon at any hour, it didn’t seem responsible to get drunk. He would just have to make do.

When he arrived back at the flat, Timothy was brushing his teeth. Patrick managed a perfunctory greeting and retreated to the living room. He turned the overhead lights out and set the record player running, flipping through their neglected pile of LPs. A packet of Henleys waited on his armchair.

He had selected something and placed the needle when Timothy’s tousled head poked round the door.  
“Jack Smith’s brother gets all the latest records. Well, he borrows them from a friend. He could probably give us a list, and we could update our collection.”  
“Hmm.” Patrick continued to examine the record.  
“What _is_ that, anyway? It sounds really old.”  
“_It’s_…” Patrick reined in the snap in his voice. “It’s The Andrews Sisters. Well before your time. And it’s time you went to bed.”  
“Shouldn’t I stay and get an education in-”  
“_Bed_, Tim.”

He hated himself a second later, for the look on the boy’s face as he withdrew. But then, he’d already been hating himself anyway.

Patrick turned the volume on the record player down, giving his son that consideration at least. Then he collapsed into his armchair, and lit a cigarette.

The smoke in the lamplight, the faint crackle behind the music… It all blended into something that was very nearly comforting, yet not. He stared into space, and listened idly to the lyrics.

_“I can see, no matter how near you’ll be_  
_You’ll never belong to me_  
_ But I can dream, can’t I?”_

A decade ago, when this song had been all over the radio, Patrick had thought it slightly overwrought. However, he’d been happily married at the time. Now he thought The Andrews Sisters might’ve had a point.

Sitting there, he couldn’t help thinking…he couldn’t help thinking a lot of things. For a moment, he hardly even tried. If things had been different…

_Imagine being some other man, meeting her at a dance. Imagine not knowing she’d ever taken vows, and so feeling no compunction in approaching her. Imagine dancing, even just innocently touching her back, her hand, her waist. She might let you kiss her… Imagine…no, don’t._

What if he had waited till now to make his feelings known? If he had kissed her palm today in the parish hall kitchen, she might not have turned away… Perhaps. But he had lost control and done it too early, when there wasn’t even a hope. And now, her whole life was opening up. Even if he _did_ risk their friendship again, and make a fool of himself, why should she want him, particularly?

He looked up all of a sudden. The Andrews Sisters had somehow already got to their cheery rendition of _Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (With Anyone Else But Me)_. Patrick got at once to his feet and struck the needle aside. He didn’t give a damn if the record scratched.

He patted the packet of Henleys on the chair when he returned, reassuring himself of its location. He would definitely need a few more to get him through the night.


	4. Chapter 4

The dance had been a bit of a non-starter, at least as far as Shelagh was concerned.

Trixie and Jenny were immediately snapped up by dapper young men, but Shelagh had hardly even been aware of her surroundings. Her head had been so full of the look on Doctor Turner’s face. Had he…liked what he had seen? She hoped he didn’t think her frivolous.

She had been preparing to settle down at one of the tables with Cynthia, when a blond young man approached and asked her to dance. Shelagh floundered for a second, somehow not having really considered being asked to dance a possibility. But then his friend asked Cynthia too, and she felt it would be awkward to decline.

Her dance partner was perfectly nice, though closer to the other girls’ age than her own. She had warned him that she was out of practice, but found that it all came back easily enough. Nonetheless, she kept glancing over her shoulder – and when she noticed that Cynthia had retreated to the corner, she was relieved to have a reason to excuse herself. She ‘really had to go and sit with her friend’. The young man looked politely disappointed, but thanked her for the dance and wished her a pleasant evening.

Shelagh smiled curiously down at Cynthia as she approached the little table.  
“You didn’t want to dance the next? I think that fellow’s rather disappointed.”  
“So is yours…”  
Shelagh looked embarrassed.  
“Oh, well… He was perfectly nice, but…”  
Cynthia nodded, toying with her glass of orange squash.  
“After a certain point, I just never know what to say.”  
“I know what you mean…” Shelagh sighed, though her thoughts were far from the rowdy dance floor. “Still…I think we can appreciate the band better from over here, anyway.”  
Cynthia gave a grateful little smile, and, laughing, they clinked their glasses.

\--

The realisation came upon Shelagh slowly over the next few weeks. That Doctor Turner wasn’t going to do anything. It wasn’t that he was avoiding her, exactly. He was attentive and communicative as always. But they were never alone – and he never sought her out the way he’d used to.

She wasn’t quite sure what she had_ expected_ to happen. (That was a lie. She’d imagined a hundred different scenarios.) And just as she realised that he _wasn’t_ going to do anything, she realised how much she had counted on it.

Of course she had. She was in love with him.

But, apparently, that was not mutual. Could it be that he had only wanted her because – and while – she’d been forbidden?

Then she struck upon another idea. One which was even more painful, because it didn’t give her the small consolation of being able to think poorly of him. (She had never really managed to, anyway.)

Who would be the safe person for a man to imagine himself in love with? If, say, he wanted to test his ability to feel, without dishonouring the memory of his wife? Someone who was, by definition, unavailable. Clearly, at the Summer Fete, he’d just got a little carried away – and she had thought he had serious feelings for her. It was embarrassing, if she thought about it for too long. Which she did. Shelagh fell into a state of hopelessness.

On top of being heartbroken, now she was stuck. Betwixt-and-between. Not exactly young, but not yet old… No longer a nun, and not anybody’s sweetheart.

In her stronger moments, she tried to reason with herself. After all, ‘not a nun and not anybody’s sweetheart’ surely described a fair percentage of the female population – and they couldn’t all be unhappy. Heaven knew there was enough important work, in the medical field or any other, to give anyone a sense of purpose. But, if she was honest, for _herself_ Shelagh had only ever really imagined being one or the other.

Cynthia, as her roommate, could hardly fail to notice the change in her demeanour. And she was remarkable. Saving Shelagh the last crumpet when she was late to breakfast; arranging that she often returned to a mysteriously made bed. Giving her space, and time alone to pray and cry. She probably assumed that the cause of Shelagh’s distress was to do with having given up her vocation. It was a convenient cover, and Shelagh didn’t feel able to correct her.

Cynthia wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Sister Julienne had been eyeing Shelagh with concern for some days, and smiling supportively whenever she noticed her entering or exiting the chapel. Now, as they all sat at dinner, her gaze kept flickering to Shelagh’s end of the table.

“As of next week, old Miss Mulheron will be off our district list,” noted Sister Evangelina. “She’s moving to Hemel Hempstead, to live with her sister.”  
Cynthia frowned.  
“Won’t that mean the Poplar Girls’ Choir are without a choir mistress?”  
“And twenty teenage girls breathe a sigh of relief,” muttered Trixie, before receiving a quelling look from the Sister. (She had nursed Miss Mulheron on several occasions.)  
“I believe the choir _is_ temporarily disbanded,” said Sister Julienne, “at least until the schools can find a replacement.” She daintily loaded some potato onto her fork, and for a moment her eyes seemed to land on Shelagh.  
“I do hope someone steps forward… Someone with the proper talent, and expertise.”

Shelagh tried to resist it. She hardly had the energy to get out of bed in the mornings, as things stood. (At least, it never _seemed_ she did, until she’d finally done it.) Sister Julienne didn’t press the issue, either – but, of course, she didn’t need to. Suggestions from Sister Julienne exerted a pull over Shelagh that no one else’s ever did, and just now she needed a lifeline to cling to. Perhaps distraction would be no bad thing.

When she finally volunteered, Sister Julienne made the arrangements. The Poplar Girls’ Choir was an interschool arrangement, meeting weekly in the parish hall. Most of the girls were in the Sixth Form, though a few promising younger voices had been selected, and were clearly awed to be in such grown-up company. There were twenty girls or so. The first time Shelagh met them, she focused on trying to learn their names.

She introduced herself as ‘Miss Mannion’, given that in this context she wasn’t a nurse. It would’ve been too much to hope that the girls wouldn’t know anything of her – and sure enough, a blonde girl raised her hand.

“You delivered my sister’s baby, back when you used to be…”  
“A nun, yes. I still deliver babies quite frequently…but _apparently_ I have time to run a choir as well.”  
Shelagh smiled ruefully as she said this – but from their utter lack of response, the girls saw nothing humorous in the statement. Upon reflection, Shelagh wasn’t sure that she did, either.

Among the rows of young faces, a few characters stood out. There was Marie, a rather glamorous sixteen-year-old, who informed Shelagh that she was a soprano before she could even ask. There was Sally, also sixteen, blonde and sweet. There was a girl called Ruth, and her friend Joanne, both of whom Shelagh could tell might be a handful. There was Joyce, who was rather less than glamorous, but who radiated keenness and an urge to please. There was Debbie and Catherine and Shirley and Rose, and others whose names Shelagh had yet to learn. 

She was glad to find quite an even spread of altos, mezzos, and sopranos. And there were some promising voices – though she suspected that, under their old choir mistress, their full potential may not have been tested.

The first day was taken up mostly by introductions, and a few scales and exercises, and introducing their first piece. Shelagh was no pianist, but she knew enough to play, one-handed, a simple melody. The choir had often previously sung acapella, so for learning songs in rehearsal this would be all they would need. In what was perhaps an ambitious choice, Shelagh decided to start them on _Ave Verum Corpus_, with a mind to them one day competing.

The second week they met, Shelagh arrived at the parish hall early, having spent the day on district rota visits. She’d been dying for a cup of tea, and made herself one in the kitchen, the blind to the hatch rolled right down. She was trying not to think about any memories related to that kitchen, when out in the main hall she heard a thunder of feet. The choir had arrived. She drained her teacup, and was about to step into the hall, when she realised the girls were mid-conversation.

“I don’t mind hymns, but are they _all_ going to be in Latin? I like to know what I’m singing about.”  
“She did tell us.”  
“Yeah, but I forgot.”  
“Bleedin’ goldfish, you are.”  
“Language…”  
“Oh Sally, that’s not ‘language’!”  
“She did used to be a nun. We should probably cut her some slack.”  
“What I want to know is, why did she _stop_ being a nun? Do you think there was a secret romance?”  
“It would’ve had to be pretty blinkin’ secret, or we’d all know about it. And she doesn’t seem to have a sweetheart.”  
“As far as we _know_…”  
“Oh come on, she doesn’t. Can’t you tell? That is _not_ the look of a woman who’s recently been kissed.”  
“Speaking from experience there, Debbie?”  
“Mind your own beeswax.”  
“That’s rich coming from you! Anyway, I don’t know why you’re all looking for some big reason. It wouldn’t take much to get _me_ to stop being a nun.”  
“Yes, we know.”

Unable to listen to anything more, Shelagh marched abruptly out of the kitchen. She wasn’t certain whether she was angrier with the girls for what they’d said, or with herself for having listened. Either way, when she spoke her voice was hard and brittle.

“Good afternoon, girls.”

Under different circumstances, their reactions might’ve been amusing. Ruth gawped, and Marie’s and Debbie’s eyes were wide. Joyce looked abjectly apologetic, though Shelagh didn’t think she’d even been part of the conversation. Just at that moment, this was no comfort at all.

Shelagh worked the choir unnecessarily hard that afternoon. They spent a long time on warm-up exercises – and when they finally got to learning the piece, she found herself pulling them up on matters of diction they could hardly be expected to have thought of. When they parted, it was not with any reluctance.

When she got back to Nonnatus House, however, Shelagh saw the bad grace with which she’d acted. The girls had been more polite in their speculations than most of Poplar’s adult population, after all. And, unlike the adults, at least they hadn’t _meant_ her to hear them. Shelagh remembered how, in her own youth, the private lives of teachers had been a subject of fascination. In Aberdeen or Poplar, and presumably the world over, teenage girls would always be…teenage girls.

She resolved to make amends the next time they met. However, the next week she nearly didn’t make it to choir practice at all. Just as she’d been about to set off from Nonnatus, she had encountered Sister Monica Joan. By the time she’d soothed the Sister’s cryptic concerns, and handed her over to Sister Evangelina, Shelagh was well and truly late. She paused out of breath in the parish hall vestibule, gathering herself to face the girls. In these few seconds, she realised that the nearby chatter in the hall was not _just_ chatter, but also the tinkle of piano keys. Whoever had used the hall earlier must have neglected to lock the lid. Shelagh sighed. She didn’t _want_ to reprimand them.

“Ooh, I know that one!”  
“Everyone does. Budge up Debs – I can play the high bit.”

Shelagh peered around the doorframe – apparently not yet cured of listening at doors – as familiar melodies came together. The other girls recognised the song as well, and soon almost all of them were singing.

_“…heart and soul, the way a fool would do, madly,_  
_because you held me tight,_  
_ and stole a kiss in the night…”_

Despite Debbie rather thumping the keyboard, they sounded good. At least when they weren’t giggling at the lyrics. Joyce tried to turn the song into a round – then, quickly realising that no one was following her, rejoined the others with sheepish laughter.

Ruth and Joanne were dancing a laughing version of what they probably thought was a foxtrot. They all looked…good together. They looked happy. _And someone ought to be_, Shelagh thought.

It was as Ruth twirled Joanne under her arm that they spotted Shelagh in the doorway. What followed was possibly the least effective cover-up Shelagh had ever seen. Catherine slammed the piano lid shut, narrowly missing Debbie’s fingers, and the girls all leapt to attention, hissing instructions out of the corners of their mouths.

“I thought you said she wasn’t coming!”  
“What’s the point, she’s already seen us!”  
“Oh, _nice_ cover, Joyce! _Very_ subtle!”  
“I panicked!”  
“Oh, _but you’ve stopped_??”  
“Shut up, all of you…”

Shelagh’s lips twitched as she tried to keep her smile from broadening. The girls were acting as though she was a sergeant major, not a small Scottish woman in a cardigan. She slowly crossed the hall towards them, noting the range of expressions in their eyes. Guilt from Joyce…a distinctly nervous look from Sally…and from Ruth, a flicker of defiance.

“Well…” said Shelagh, letting the silence hang, and realising that she was enjoying herself. “It sounds as though we won’t have to spend _quite_ so long on vocal warm-ups today. Would you rather skip ‘Mini mini’ or ‘Do Re Mi’?”

The girls exchanged disbelieving, sidelong glances. “Mini mini?” tried Marie, hopefully.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next weeks, the choir progressed nicely. Shelagh found that, when she relaxed, this was something she was really good at. She could issue instruction to a section at large, without making it obvious which girl’s habits she was correcting.

The girls would still sometimes test her boundaries, however. One afternoon she was having them repeat the lyrics back after her, to improve their Latin pronunciation. Joanne repeated the lyrics back _exactly_ as they’d been spoken – in a rather good impression of Shelagh’s Aberdonian accent. Shelagh’s lips quirked in a wry smile.  
“Let’s save the impressions for the talent show, shall we? But otherwise you’re doing very well.”

It was hardly the wittiest riposte, but a few girls sniggered, and the tension of the moment was diffused. Joanne looked at her with amusement – and after that Ruth showed her a new, only-slightly-grudging respect.

Shelagh was gathering up her sheet music, about to dismiss the girls for the afternoon, when Shirley peered more closely at the piano.  
“Is that piano one of them pianola ones, Miss?”  
“I believe it is,” Shelagh nodded, gesturing towards the panel previously hidden by the rack of music. “They’re useful for parish halls and such, if you want to have live music but don’t have anyone who knows how to play. There must be a few rolls around here somewhere.”  
“My grandad had a pianola,” said Shirley, “and he always kept his music rolls…inside the piano stool!”  
She had lifted the seat of the stool – without asking – and triumphantly held up a rectangular box.  
“Can we have a go, Miss? Please?”

Shelagh sighed. They _had_ worked hard that day…and just so long as she wasn’t late for dinner…  
“Alright then. _One_ song, and then your parents will be expecting you home.”  
“Mine? Not likely!” scoffed Ruth, but her attention was caught as Shirley fitted the roll into the mechanism. “I’ll work the pedals, if you want, Shirl.”  
“I hope you’re fit!”

The box Shirley had found was labelled ‘Tammy’, and the girls oohed and aahed. It was the hit song from a popular film the year before, and had been played on the radio so frequently that even Shelagh (then Sister Bernadette) almost knew it.

“Did anyone see the film?”  
“My sister did.”  
“Oh, I love that Debbie Reynolds. She’s got such a sweet face.”  
“I wouldn’t mind her figure either.”  
Shelagh cut in quickly, before the girls could start comparing their sixteen-year-old selves to a movie star with who knew what help at her disposal.  
“She’s got a very nice _voice_…”

Ruth had set her feet on the pedals, and everyone laughed as she played the opening bars at first too fast and then too slowly.  
“Mind the tempo,” Shelagh chuckled, stepping off to the side to organise her bag.

_“I hear the cottonwoods whisperin’ above  
Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love…”_

Joyce turned around, at the back of the group, and eagerly beckoned her choir mistress over – looking confused as to why Shelagh hadn’t joined in the first place. Shaking her head amusedly, Shelagh went to join them – causing Marie to turn around, impressed, when she started to sing. There were a few giggly glances at the _ex-nun choir mistress_ joining in a love song, but Shelagh avoided their eyes and fixed her own on the scrolling lyrics.

As arranged on the piano roll, the song was a pretty little waltz. The melody was patently romantic, and each successive note seemed to lodge itself in Shelagh’s chest. But she was used to that, after so many weeks, and could bear it. The girls should have their fun.

_“Wish I knew if he knew what I’m dreamin’ of  
Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love…”_

As they finished, Ruth did a little seated bow, and then made a show of wiping her brow exhaustedly. Rose turned to Shelagh.  
“What _is_ a whippoorwill, anyway?”  
“It’s a type of bird. They appear quite often in American songs – and, I assume, in America.”  
Catherine scoffed. “That’s no proof. In English songs there’s lots of _nice, romantic chaps_, but we’re not exactly tripping over them.”  
Shelagh pressed her lips together in an effort not to laugh. Surely, she thought, the girl was a little young to already be so cynical. Debbie noticed the look on her face, and stepped in with an explanation.  
“She’s just miffed because – ow!”  
Catherine had elbowed her.  
“As I was saying…” Shelagh said lightly, reining in a smile, “I believe whippoorwills are not uncommon in parts of America.”

As she walked back to Nonnatus in the twilight, Shelagh mused to herself. The girls so enjoyed popular music…their opportunities to sing it shouldn’t be left to chance, and impromptu singalongs. So long as they built a repertoire of more formal pieces – things they could perform in competition, or at the Christmas Eve service – there was no reason they couldn’t _also_ learn something contemporary.

_Oh dear_, mused Shelagh, as she reflected on that thought, _I think these girls must have grown on me._

No one saw her little smile – except for the man with the medical bag, standing on the corner. Sadly watching her go.

\--

Shelagh rifled through Nonnatus House’s sheet music collection, looking for something less formal to try with the girls. To be frank, the options were limited. But she thought she’d picked out a few likely-sounding choices, and was more excited than she’d admit to present them to the choir.

“I’ve been thinking,” she told them next practice, “that since we’ve been progressing so well, we might have time to actually _learn_ something a little bit…fun.”

It sounded rather desperate, and Ruth raised an amused eyebrow, but Shelagh soldiered on.

“I picked a few options out, from the sheet music I had available… I thought you might like ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’?”  
Rose accepted the sheet music excitedly, and the girls gathered round – but after scarcely more than a second, their shoulders seemed to droop collectively.  
“What?” said Shelagh.  
“This is the ancient one. We thought you meant the one from just a few years ago.”  
“You know, by The Spaniels,” said Shirley – as though who The Spaniels were was something anyone would know.  
“I…can’t say I’m familiar,” mumbled Shelagh, colouring slightly – and reflecting not for the first time that her Biblical studies had not left her much time to keep up with the latest hits.

“You _must_,” Joanne insisted. “It’s this one:  
_Goodnight sweetheart, well it’s time to go.  
Goodnight sweetheart, well it’s time to go…”  
_The other girls joined in, and Shelagh was impressed to note them sort of falling into their parts, alto Ruth attempting a “bah-dum bah-dum” backup. She blinked and smiled in astonishment, still feeling off-balance.  
_“I hate to leave you, but I really must say_  
_ Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight.”_

“It’s a boy’s song, really,” Marie explained, as the others fell silent, “though the McGuire Sisters covered it. Anyway, I don’t see why the girl shouldn’t be the one to put an end to a date. It seems more likely, really.”  
“Maybe in your experience,” muttered Joyce, glumly, and the others laughed. Then Joyce looked quite pleased.

“Well…” Shelagh blinked, “I suppose I could get hold of the music. That _does_ sound like a good fit for you all.”

“Oh yes, I know that one,” Trixie smiled, hours later. “By The Spaniels. Or was it the McGuire Sisters?”  
“Apparently both.”

Shelagh looked up from the crisp new pages of her recently-purchased sheet music, and smiled bemusedly. Sometimes she felt very much older than Trixie and the other girls – and she _was_, though only by about a decade. The other nurses were readying themselves for another dance. Shelagh had made up a flimsy excuse not to join them. She felt bad for not going along to keep Cynthia company, but she couldn’t keep declining dances from perfectly pleasant young men. And she couldn’t really, sincerely dance with them either. So what was the point?

“I don’t know _how_ you have the time,” Trixie marvelled, applying lipstick. “To run a choir like that.”  
“Well, I’m not going to dances, am I? Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with going to dances,” she added quickly, screwing up her face in apology. “Anyway, I’ve only got about a decade of popular music to catch up on…”  
She gestured to her new sheet music, and a nearby pile of records.  
“Well,” sighed Trixie, linking arms with Cynthia, “if you change your mind…”

Shelagh didn’t. She sat up late in her and Cynthia’s empty bedroom, poring over the sheet music and making notes on how one might arrange it for twenty girls.

\--

By the time of the next week’s choir practice, Shelagh felt ready to start the girls on their new song. At least there’d be no trouble this time with Latin pronunciation. 

They were nearly finished their second run-through of the soprano part, when Sally – who, on reflection, had been looking off-colour ever since she’d arrived – broke from the group and ran for the toilets, retching. Joanne shouted after her, with a sympathetic laugh.  
“The lyrics aren’t _that_ soppy, Sal! Come back!”  
Debbie shook her head knowingly. “I told her that vanilla slice looked dodgy.”

Shelagh frowned at the doors swinging in Sally’s wake, and checked her watch.  
“Once more through the alto part, then… And then I think we’ll be finished for the day.”

When Shelagh dismissed the girls, Marie and Debbie loitered a while outside the Ladies’. They were clearly waiting for their friend.  
“I don’t _want_ to, but I’d really better go,” Marie fretted to Debbie, looking at the clock. “Mum’s on at me about always coming home late as it is.”  
“Is Sally still in there?” Shelagh asked, frowning over her shoulder as she locked one set of doors.  
“In a cubicle, yeah,” said Debbie. “Said she’s okay, but she still sounded sick.”  
Shelagh felt a twinge of real concern. “Why don’t the _both_ of you go home, and I’ll look after Sally. I’ll be sure to tell her that you waited.”  
The two girls shared an uneasy smile. “Thanks, Miss Mannion. See you next week!”

Once they had gone, Shelagh hesitated. At the outer door she felt a strange urge to knock, even though Sally would likely be hidden inside a cubicle.  
“Sally…?”  
She pushed the door open, and went in.

The farthest cubicle, against the wall, had its door now slightly ajar. A uniformed figure was slumped by the toilet, blonde head cradled on one arm above the bowl.

“Oh, Sally…”

Shelagh hurried over and pushed the cubicle door further open, careful that it didn’t nudge the girl. Sally looked briefly up over her shoulder, then screwed up her face, turning back to the bowl. From the little Shelagh could see, she looked a mess, her eyes red and streaming.

“I threw up.”  
“Yes, I can see that.” Shelagh laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Do you think you’re going to again?”  
Sally shook her head, and groaned and sniffed.  
“Well then, let’s get you up, shall we?” She supported the girl with hands under her arms. “You poor thing… Do you think you ate something off?”  
“No, I don’t think so.”

Shelagh led her to sit on the closed lid of the nearest toilet – that being the only seat at hand. She left the girl for a moment, and went to flush away the sick. It was while she was doing this, leaning slightly over the toilet, that she saw what was scrunched up on the floor. An all-too-familiar-looking pamphlet.

As her eyes took in the print and slowly processed the words, Shelagh suddenly went cold. Surely… Of all the girls, surely not _Sally_?

She stared unseeing at the wall for a few moments, then returned to Sally in the neighbouring cubicle. The girl looked at once so very young, and yet older than Shelagh had somehow realised.

“Sally…” She paused, weighing her words carefully. “Is there…something you need to tell me?”

Quite suddenly, the girl’s face crumpled. Her head bowed to stare down at her hands, and when she spoke the words came out in a sob.  
“Mum’ll just _kill_ me! Never mind Dad.”  
Shelagh’s brow creased in sympathy, and she bent to take one of the girl’s hands.  
“No one’s going to kill you. I promise. Now…do you think you can tell me?”

It would have been better to sit beside her, but the cubicle was narrow, and there was nowhere else to sit. Shelagh settled for bending over her with a gently-solicitous expression. Sally swallowed, and looked up. After a moment she spoke.

“It only happened once. I thought, just once…and then I’d have done it. And then I’d _know_. And then…you know, later…I’d get it right.”

Shelagh’s heart broke at the earnest, desolate look on the girl’s face. She kept her own expression carefully neutral, but breathed out a little unsteadily.  
“I’m afraid ‘just once’ is no guarantee. Every time, there’s a risk. The young man…”  
“He’s not hanging around, or anything. It won’t happen again.”  
Shelagh nodded. “I see. Forgive me for asking, but…your monthlies? Are they due?”  
“Yes.” Then Sally frowned. “I think so. Or…maybe not till next week? I don’t know, I never really count.”  
Shelagh squeezed the girl’s hand. “This might be a good time to start.”

Sally’s gaze was fixed on her lap, fresh tears now rolling down her cheeks.  
“You must think-”  
“What I think, Sally, is that we need to get a clearer idea of your exact situation. And that’s _all_ I think, about you or anyone.”  
The girl met her steady gaze, and sniffed. Shelagh thought for a second, frowning.

“As you know, I _am_ trained in this area. I _could_ look you over…”  
Sally drew back, fidgeting with the sleeve of her school jersey.  
“You’re my choir mistress.”  
Shelagh sighed. “I’m many things. But, if you’d feel more confident in his assessment, you could let me take you to Doctor Turner.”

It would hurt to see him, she knew. It hurt to see him any time she didn’t have to, or hadn’t had a chance to prepare. But she _did_ have to, now. Sally was in her care, and had trusted her with a deeply personal secret. And when it came to discretion and a gentle manner, there was no one better than Doctor Turner to rely on.

Sally still looked unconvinced. “He’ll tell my parents.”  
“No, he won’t. Not without your permission, and certainly not until your situation becomes a lot clearer. Patient confidentiality is part of our jobs.”  
The girl chewed her lip, and wiped drying tears from her face with the sleeve of her jersey.  
“… What if someone sees?”  
“As far as anyone knows, you’ve had a case of food poisoning. We’ve no reason to disabuse them of that notion.” Shelagh tried for a bit of humour. “You look a convincing-enough mess, I don’t think anyone will question!”

Sally laughed all of a sudden, a touch hysterically, and allowed Shelagh to help her to her feet.

\--

Patrick was on the point of leaving his surgery when the waiting room door unexpectedly opened. His heart turned over to see Nurse Mannion enter, her arm around an ashen-faced schoolgirl. One of her choir girls, presumably.

“Greetings, Doctor… I realise we’re unexpected, but Sally’s had a nasty case of food poisoning. I wondered if you might just look her over.”  
She seemed to be speaking more loudly than necessary, in the empty waiting room.  
“Of course,” Patrick blinked, stepping back the way he’d come. “This way. It’s Sally Perkins, isn’t it?”

Once a door was closed between them and the waiting room – which had, in any case, been empty – Nurse Mannion looked up at him, and he noticed the expression in her eyes.  
“It’s not food poisoning,” she said, more quietly. “There’s a chance Sally may be pregnant.”

Aware of the girl’s gaze upon them, Patrick carefully controlled his face.  
“I see. And, Sally, you’re happy for me to ask a few questions, and conduct an examination, if Nurse Mannion stays in the room?”  
Sally nodded – although her eyes were already brimming with tears. Patrick took a small detour to fetch a box of tissues as he crossed the room towards her.

He asked all the routine questions, with some adjustments, as delicately as he could. Sally was very hazy on the details. He did, at least, feel convinced from what she told him that the encounter had been consensual. She didn’t seem sure when her next period was due, and couldn’t quite say when her last one had finished. She had first worried she might be pregnant because she was ‘getting fat’ – and, after fretting on it for days, had felt nauseous.

Patrick then conducted an examination. While it was perhaps too early to be sure – and who really knew, from how little she’d told him – he found nothing that gave him reason to believe Sally was actually pregnant. As she rebuttoned her blouse, he folded and unfolded his hands, speaking carefully.

“Changes in weight and body shape are very natural at your age. You’ve probably been noticing them for some time already. And if today _is_ the only time since it happened that you’ve vomited, the nausea may well be psychosomatic…” He looked up into Sally’s face, and smiled gently. “You’ve worried yourself sick, in other words.”

“You’ll know for certain if and when your period arrives…but, from what you’ve told me, and from my examination, I don’t think you have reason to worry just yet. If you have any more concerns, however – or if your period doesn’t arrive in the next few weeks – you shouldn’t hesitate to see me, or Nurse Mannion. Do you understand?”  
The girl nodded, more able now to hold his gaze than she had been previously. In the corner, he heard Nurse Mannion exhale.

“Sally,” said her choir mistress, getting to her feet, “the waiting room is empty… Why don’t you go and have a cup of water and a sit down, and I’ll be with you shortly?”

The girl departed, and when the door had shut behind her Nurse Mannion turned to face him. Oh, why was he calling her that? She was _Shelagh_ to him, at least in his head, regardless of what might be proper or sensible. And as she met his gaze, he saw an openness in her face that he hadn’t seen for a long time. 

“She said she had thought it would be alright, because it only happened once.”  
Her expression was grim, and Patrick sighed heavily.  
“Accurate information always has to compete against more convenient-sounding myths. And many parents, often with reasonably good intentions, don’t want their children to know about these things. But, as we see, the only real protection is education. Or, in this case, blind luck.”

He tried a smile – then a second later noticed the fragility in Shelagh’s expression. She shook her head dismissively at herself, turning slightly away.  
“I don’t know why I’ve let this get to me. I’ve worked in this field for so long, and Sally is hardly the first. If I’m not careful, I’ll be watching all the other girls for signs.”  
She was trying to laugh at herself, but was also serious, he could tell.  
“Paranoia never helped anyone,” he smiled, firmly.  
“No…” Shelagh agreed, glancing back at him and taking a fortifying breath.

He had missed this. Talking with her, about common interests and concerns. They had so many.

And now he just wanted to make her smile. To prattle on, so she could pull herself together.  
“Sally’s a sweet girl… And doesn’t time fly? When she was – oh, maybe six – I patched up her knee, and she tried to pay me in sherbet lemons.”  
Shelagh gave a watery little laugh, and for one stupid moment Patrick felt as proud as though he’d won first prize at a fair.  
“And she’s a promising soprano, if only she’d work on her breath control.”

In this little flare of teacherly frustration, Patrick caught a glimpse of Shelagh-as-choir-mistress. He couldn’t help but smile.

“How is the choir going, generally?”  
“Oh, a few bumps on the road, but they’re really progressing nicely.” Her tone was steadier now, at once business-like and friendly. “I’d like them to compete, eventually…though I think a trial-run first would probably be wise.”

Patrick knew what he was about to suggest for a full second before he said it. And he knew he probably shouldn’t.

“What about the Brinsley Scholarship Dance? Most of the girls will probably be going to that, anyway.”  
She looked up at him. “Open the evening with a performance, you mean?” She blinked. “That might be a nice idea.”

Edward Brinsley had been a Poplar lad who’d done well in school and gone on to excel in his field. He had bequeathed an annual scholarship to ensure that other young locals had the same opportunity. An additional sum went to hosting a dance, at which these scholarships were handed out. The recipients were always announced in advance, so there was never any surprise or disappointment. It was a chance for Poplar’s youth to socialise – whether they’d won a scholarship or not.

“I’ve been roped in this year,” Patrick admitted, feeling this might alter her enthusiasm. “An old university friend of mine helps facilitate it. He wants me to hand out the scholarships, and spot prizes. Including ‘Best Dressed’ and ‘Best Dancer’, which proves old Geoff hasn’t seen me in years!”

Shelagh looked across at him and chuckled, though he could still see the wheels turning in her head. She was seriously considering it – and treacherously, pointlessly, Patrick felt a surge of hope. Another chance to see her, outside of working hours…just to _see_ her…

“Well, I’ll certainly think on that. If you could put me in touch…?”  
“Of course.”  
“Thank you, Doctor. And sorry to trouble you unexpectedly. I think Sally will be alright… I think she’s been lucky.”  
“I think she’s been _very_ lucky in her choir mistress,” said Patrick, seriously, and felt his chest flutter as Shelagh immediately dropped her eyes. A modest little smile tugged at her lips.  
“You say that – I’ve never made _you_ sing a scale.”  
One corner of Patrick’s mouth quirked upwards. “Probably for the best.”

There was a moment in which they looked at each other. Patrick wanted… But then it was he who lowered his eyes. He’d already finagled another chance to see her, on the pretence of helping to solve her problem. That was foolish self-indulgence enough.

“You’ll take Sally home?”  
“Yes,” she nodded, looking down again, and the tension was gone. “Thank you, Doctor.”  
“Of course. Well, goodnight.”  
“Goodnight.”

Patrick stared at the door for ten full seconds after she’d gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Shelagh didn’t sleep well that night, after what she had been through with Sally. She kept going over the afternoon in her head. Her moment of realisation in the Ladies’…Sally’s tears…Doctor Turner’s care and diligence in consultation. And then their discussion afterwards.

She rolled over restlessly, adjusting her pillow. If nothing was going to happen between them, and she had accepted that it wasn’t, then did he _have_ to…look like that? Look _at her_ like that? It really wasn’t helping. But that was just his way, she supposed. He couldn’t help it if his eyes were…well, painfully beautiful. Or if his attentive manner was misconstrued.

She rolled over again. And tried not to remember that, the last time she’d told herself she was glad they were friends, she’d realised she was in love with him and uprooted her entire life.

The nerves Shelagh had on Sally’s behalf had risen by the next choir practice. As the girls filed into the hall, dropping their schoolbags, Sally caught Shelagh’s eye. She gave a conspiratorial little smile, and nodded once, quickly. Shelagh breathed out in a grateful sigh – and was so full of goodwill for the rest of the practice that she didn’t even tell Ruth to tuck her shirt in.

The choir had learned their new song surprisingly quickly, no doubt spurred by enthusiasm for the material. When she broached the subject of their performing it at the Brinsley Scholarship Dance, reactions varied from delighted to nervous. All their peers would be there, after all. But Shelagh assured the girls that she had every faith in them, and quietly hoped the nervous ones would come around.

They were all very excited about the dance. They seemed to move in giggling groups more than usual – and as Shelagh was locking the piano lid that day, one such group was gathered next to her. She wasn’t listening to what they were saying, until Debbie stamped her foot in apparent frustration, and spun around.

“Miss Mannion, tell Joyce she _has_ to go to the dance with Lawrence! She’ll listen to you.”  
Shelagh blinked in surprise, realising that Joyce stood at the centre of the circle – which was not the usual way of things. The girl was blushing under all the attention, and looked both deeply embarrassed and quite pleased.  
“We’re setting her up on a blind date,” Catherine explained.  
“I really think you’ll like him, Joyce,” said Sally, earnestly. “You’re quite similar.”  
“You mean he’s _also_ an absolute square?”  
“In the sweetest of ways,” said Marie – who reminded Shelagh sometimes of Trixie.

It struck Shelagh in a disconcerting realisation that, to these girls, she was practically Sister Julienne. The eldest authority to appeal to. She stifled a laugh.

“I don’t think it’s for me to say who Joyce goes to the dance with.” Then she leaned in, to speak directly to the blushing girl. “I suppose it comes down to whether or not you trust your friends’ taste…and whether you’re willing to take a risk.”  
Joyce groaned – risk not being something she was keen on.  
“And I _would_ point out,” Shelagh went on, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “that it _is_ only one night. I’ll see you next week, girls!”

They had one last practice before the dance, and it went very well. Shelagh told the choir she’d meet them at the dance, and looked forward to seeing them all dressed in their finest. She herself would be attending in a joint capacity, as chaperone as well as choir mistress. That would not call for very glamorous attire – Shelagh supposed that a day dress and cardigan would do.

When she arrived at the parish hall, the place was all a-flutter. The hall was colourfully lit, and decorated with balloons and crepe paper streamers – no doubt a busy afternoon’s work on Fred’s part. Young people were milling about excitedly, all in their best suits or dresses. Shelagh kept an eye out for her girls.

She was standing to one side, feeling slightly superfluous, when a pair came hurrying up.  
“Miss Mannion! Hello!”  
It was Joyce, dolled up and aglow, and looking as pleased as usual to see the choir mistress who she so clearly admired. Shelagh beamed at the sight of her.  
“Joyce! Good evening! What a lovely dress!”  
Joyce glowed, looking down at her skirt – and then up at the young man standing next to her.  
“And who is this?” Shelagh asked, innocently, as though she’d not been part of any discussion.  
“This is Lawrence,” Joyce answered. She was now blushing slightly. “Lawrence, this is Miss Mannion, my choir mistress.”  
“Hullo,” said the boy, with an awkward-but-friendly wave, and Shelagh returned his smile. She was pleased to see he’d bought Joyce a corsage – or, more likely, his mother had made it from her garden. He _was_ what Marie would call ‘a square’…but he was also clearly good-natured, and had Shelagh’s approval immediately.  
“Well, I’m sure you two want to go and mingle…but Joyce, I’ll see you in a little while. I’ll call everyone together in plenty of time, and we can sneak in a warm up out the back.”

Once Joyce and Lawrence had gone on their way – body-language projecting sweet adolescent awkwardness – Shelagh spotted some of her other choir girls.

Ruth and Joanne entered together, two slightly bored-looking boys following behind them. Ruth was wearing quite a simple dress – the clips in her short hair being her only concession to feminine glamour. Joanne had curled her hair, and looked excited.

Marie and Debbie and Sally were looking lovely too – everybody was – and the girls all gave Shelagh a wave when they saw her. Shelagh checked her watch, and felt her own twinge of nervousness about how the performance would go. The choir were well-rehearsed…but nonetheless, she felt a nervous thrill. She straightened her cardigan, and breathed deeply.

\--

Patrick felt somehow simultaneously over- _and_ underdressed, as he arrived at the parish hall. He was in his best three-piece suit, and had Brylcreemed his hair – and, at least by his standards, thought he looked decent. Actually, perhaps the Brylcreem had been a step too far… But too late now.

In fact, he was simply uncomfortable with the idea of himself as presenter, handing out scholarships to the youth. Geoff had joked that he was a “well-respected local figure” who all the young people would know, but Patrick suspected the organisers had been desperate.

He walked into the hall – slightly late, as usual – to see the room crowded and colourfully-lit. He felt a twinge of nostalgia for the dance halls of his youth, though of course a lot had changed since then. Scanning the room, he foolishly hoped to catch a glimpse of Shelagh – so that he could argue with himself about whether or not to wander her way. Instead, his eyes locked with one of the Brinsley Scholarship organisers, who made a beeline for him.  
“Doctor Turner, good to see you…”

By the time Patrick had extracted himself from that conversation, the organisers were testing their microphones. He loitered near the side of the stage, and felt a sudden jolt in his stomach when he spotted the choir mistress, slipping out of a side door with a group of girls.

“Testing, testing, one two three… Yes, I think we’re set.”  
“Alright! If I may have your attention, boys and girls…Yes, that’s right, thank you, hush…”

The Brinsley Scholarship organiser made his introduction, once he’d got the attention of the crowd. Patrick suspected the young people probably weren’t overly concerned about who Edward Brinsley had been – but they got a brief life-story nonetheless.

“Now, before the main business of the evening, we are all in for a treat. The Poplar Girls’ Choir are going to give us a performance!”

Patrick felt a leap of nervousness on Shelagh’s behalf, as the girls filed out onto the stage. Oh, he hoped this would go well for her… For all of them.

Shelagh walked out from the wings last of all, coming to stand in the centre. She looked so very…poised, Patrick felt a sudden rush of pride. (Though what right did_ he_ have to feel proud of her?) Having arranged the girls, she turned around to face the audience.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Shelagh smiled warmly. “The choir will now present an acapella rendition of ‘Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight’.”

As she turned her back again to the audience, a boy in the crowd raised his fingers to his mouth. He was _just_ about to wolf-whistle – but lowered his fingers again, slowly, when the doctor gave him a quelling look.

From somewhere offstage, the girls were given a note. And then they started to sing.

Patrick could carry a tune, but the technicalities of music were a mystery to him – as much as the workings of the aortic ventricle were a mystery to the average citizen of Poplar. He knew good music when he heard it, however – and the choir had hardly got through their opening lines before Patrick realised he was grinning.

Standing as he was slightly back and to the side, he had a better view than most. At least for his purposes. From where he stood, he could see Shelagh’s face. Could see the pride shining off her. She mouthed the lyrics, smiling, holding eye-contact to draw performances out of the shyer girls. With graceful hand movements, she would conduct each part, then draw them in to sing a line in unison. She was glowing. He’d never seen her quite so beautiful.

_“I hate to leave you, but I really must say_  
_Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight._  
_ Goodnight…”_

The crowd burst into enthusiastic applause, and Patrick clapped so hard his hands hurt. Shelagh directed the girls to take a little bow, then shepherded them off the stage, still beaming. _Well, there_, Patrick thought. That had been more than worth it. His self-indulgent suggestion had made Shelagh smile _like that_. And, for his part, he’d got to see her.

The Brinsley Scholarship fellow had taken the stage again.  
“Now, I don’t want you all to worry…no one’s going anywhere just yet!” There was a bit of mild laughter, and he carried on. “Certainly not before the scholarships have been handed out…by Poplar’s own Doctor Turner!”

Patrick blinked to hear his own name, and stepped up onto the stage, amid exaggerated applause and wolf-whistles. He gave an embarrassed laugh, accepting the list of prize winners from the organiser. Looking out at the crowd, Patrick noticed the choir slipping back in amongst their peers, rejoining their dates. Shelagh stood at the back, her eyes on him.

He read the list of scholarships, and handed them out – including one to young Lawrence Hilbert, who by the look on his date’s face must have modestly neglected to mention he’d won a scholarship. The spot prizes would be saved for later in the evening. This was just as well, because the crowd had waited long enough to dance.

Patrick wandered off to one side as the music started playing. Young couples were taking to the floor. Lawrence and his date – one of the choir girls – were not dancing, but standing a few feet away in conversation.

“Enough about that. I wanted to say, you in that choir… You were marvellous!”  
“Oh, gosh…I’m just a mezzo. It’s the sopranos who carry the song, really.”  
“Well, I’m not musical at all, but I imagine it’s much like in physics. Newton’s Laws wouldn’t be any good without Kepler’s Laws to build on – and nor would the sopranos without you there.”  
“…I suppose so. Though I’ll have to take your word for it!”

Patrick turned away to hide his smile.

As he did so, however, his eyes fell on Shelagh. His smile faded then, and turned bittersweet. She was standing off to one side, like he was, watching the youngsters dance. He knew she’d volunteered to act as chaperone.

It made his heart ache to see her standing alone, and looking so…well, so chaperone-like. Not that she was any less lovely in what even Patrick could tell was rather a prim cardigan. It was just…she ought to be more in the middle of things, or at least in company. She ought to be having fun. Where had the glow gone he’d seen while the choir had been performing?

He _shouldn’t_ go over there. Or, if he did, he really shouldn’t linger. Though it would probably be polite to just say hello…

Patrick rolled his eyes at himself, and pretended to admire the balloons and crepe paper streamers. The lyrics of the slow song being played filtered into his consciousness.

_“I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine_  
_Any time, night or day._  
_ Only trouble is, gee whizz_  
_ I’m dreamin’ my life away…”_

He breathed out slowly. It came to something, didn’t it, when a song aimed at a teenage audience hit you square in the chest. And at his age.

His gaze turned irresistibly back to Shelagh, standing on the edge of the floor. The song changed, then, to something loud and upbeat, and more couples hurried to join the dance. Patrick took this as a good sign. He’d be able to keep his head around her, surely, with the tone set by unromantic lyrics.

_“You can swing it, you can groove it_  
_You can really start to move it_  
_ At the hop…”_

He edged his way around the floor, pretending to watch the dancers – as though he had no real destination in mind. When he neared Shelagh, however, she looked up and smiled. A little awkwardly, he thought. He returned the smile and came to stand beside her, looking out the same way she did at the dancers.

“You know,” he began, only half-joking, “I’m not sure I’ve ever felt older.”  
Shelagh chuckled, and smiled across at him. “I know what you mean…”  
“Your choir were excellent, by the way. Just excellent.”  
“Oh, thank you.”  
She smiled again, so warmly that his heart stuttered. He quickly returned to the safer ground of joking self-deprecation.

“_This_ music, however… I don’t know. It’s not bad, but it’s hardly Helen Forrest. I always liked her, years back. In the Bronze Age.”  
Shelagh raised an eyebrow.  
“I’m not so very up-to-date myself. Though not for the girls’ lack of trying! The last time I was allowed to even _think_ about dancing, Helen Forrest was the kind of thing they were playing.”  
He glanced across at her, charmed and amused.  
“Do you have a diplomatic answer for everything?”  
“Not everything.”

They watched a particularly enthusiastic pair do a dance-step Patrick couldn’t name.  
“I mean, I learned to waltz. But this? I wouldn’t have the foggiest.”  
“Nor would I. Although,” Shelagh added wryly, “as chaperone, I don’t think I’m in danger of being asked.”  
“More’s the pity…”

_Why_ the _hell_ had he said that? It sounded like gibberish – a non-sequitur without context. And he definitely couldn’t _give her_ the context currently racing around his head.

He risked a glance, and saw that she was frowning at her shoes – probably wondering what on earth he’d meant. Patrick cursed himself. Then, for some reason, he _kept talking_.

“I’d ask you. To dance, I mean. If they played something sensible. Though I suppose the chances of that are slim.”

He was so busy silently wishing himself dead that he almost didn’t hear Shelagh respond. The music was loud, and her voice was so soft. Almost…wistful.

“More’s the pity…”

_What?_

Patrick turned to stare at her, then realised a second later what he was doing. Quickly, he turned his gaze back to the dance floor – and although he seemed to watch the crowd, his eyes were unseeing. What had she meant by that? And in that tone? Surely she simply meant that…she wished they’d play more ‘sensible’ music?

Patrick’s mind raced, his heart thudded as he stared blankly ahead. Then, quite suddenly, his eyes came into focus, and he realised what it was he’d been looking at. He sighed.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake…”


	7. Chapter 7

Shelagh blinked, startled and utterly at sea as the doctor strode away. Then she realised what he’d spotted, a few seconds before she had – the signs of two boys squaring up to fight.

Attention started to turn his way as he pushed across the floor, but no one really realised what was happening until a girl nearby screamed.

Doctor Turner was too late to prevent the first punch. The second, already on its way before he got between them, landed squarely on his jaw. A few more girls screamed.

The boy was maybe half his size, and so he hardly staggered – but his face was like thunder as he pushed them apart.   
“Right! Out. The both of you. You are _going for a walk_.”

The music had stopped, and the two boys’ partners were left standing, shocked, on the verge of tears. As chatter resumed, a few of their friends gathered round them. Her brow creasing concernedly, Shelagh hurried forward – but found herself overtaken by Joanne and Ruth.

“Don’t worry, Miss. We’ve got it sorted.”

Shelagh watched, as the pair she might once have called troublemakers hurried over to take the girls under their wing. They had left their dates at the refreshment table, and were soon encouraging others to split up from dancing in pairs. The music started up again, and a mixed group formed – immediately improving the quality and inventiveness of the dancing. Shelagh smiled as the teary, now-partnerless girls’ faces brightened. Whoever was choosing the music evidently thought they were clever.

_“Stupid Cupid, you’re a real mean guy  
I’d like to clip your wings so you can’t fly…”_

Her concern for the teenagers now abated, Shelagh looked around for Doctor Turner. The surge of adrenaline when the fight broke out had been some distraction, but now the turmoil of the minutes prior came rushing back.

What _had_ he meant by that statement? And more importantly, when, oh Lord _when_ would she stop hanging on his every word?

Her stomach leapt to see him striding back across the dancefloor. He looked less put-together now than he had some minutes previously. As well as the slight bruise blooming on his jaw, he was also fussing with his jacket – in the chaos, someone’s lemonade must have spilled.

“Ahh, young love…” he sighed sardonically, as he came towards her. Shelagh gave a sympathetic smile.   
“Thank you for sorting that out. You’re quicker off the mark than I am.”  
“Oh, hardly. I just happened to be looking in the right direction.”  
He brushed at his jacket sleeve again, and Shelagh’s fingers itched to fix it.  
“…Why don’t we go and sort out your jacket? And maybe get some ice as well?”  
“For this?” The doctor touched his jaw, looking embarrassed. “It was hardly a punch…”  
“Well, no… But still.”

As he followed her into the kitchen, Shelagh realised she hadn’t thought this through at all. Putting herself alone – in _this_ kitchen, with_ this_ man – was in fact a terrible idea. And they _were_ alone, the blind to the hatch rolled down. Was she _trying_ to torture herself?

As she busied herself looking for some ice and a tea towel, the doctor shrugged off his damp jacket. He sighed.  
“I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t raspberry…”  
She met his wry gaze, and chuckled. And _tried_ not to notice the cut of his waistcoat – or how he looked in shirtsleeves, jacket-less.

It was only the sleeve, and a bit of the shoulder of his jacket that had been splashed. Intent on keeping busy, Shelagh took it from him, and went to fetch a damp cloth from the sink.  
“I can do that…” He frowned.  
“No, no… You just apply the ice.”

The doctor leaned against the kitchen counter, holding the towel-wrapped ice to his jaw.  
“Well…I certainly won’t be giving either of _those_ lads a spot prize.”  
“I should think not.”  
“You’d think they’d have a little more consideration. This could ruin my looks.”  
He was obviously joking, but Shelagh felt her cheeks burn. She turned away to hang his jacket on a chair to dry.

There was a few moments’ awkward silence, and then she tried to pull herself together.  
“But, apart from that little interruption, I think the evening has gone nicely.”  
Doctor Turner spoke quickly. “Oh, I agree. Your choir’s performance really set the tone.”

Shelagh smiled sincerely then, and glanced towards the kitchen door. Out in the main hall, the song had changed again, to something slower – something soulful and lilting. If they could just get back to that friendly way of laughing at themselves…about being out of date, about anything…

“It sounds as though they’ve saved the more ‘sensible’ songs for this end of the evening…”   
The doctor raised his eyes thoughtfully, as though considering the song.  
“Well,” he smiled, “it’s not Helen Forrest. But it’ll do.”  
He put down the ice, and held one hand out.  
“May I?”

He was clearly joking. Shelagh laughed.

And he _was _joking – there was self-deprecation in his eyes – but he didn’t stop holding his hand out either. Shelagh played up her amusement in an attempt to hide the turmoil beneath it – rolling her eyes as she accepted the offer.

His hand was warm, and would have enveloped hers easily. He held it delicately instead, his other hand settling on her back. Shelagh wondered how on earth she was still breathing. She certainly couldn’t meet his eyes – not for more than a few laughing moments. Thankfully, she had the excuse of looking down at their feet.

But, she found, she didn’t really need to. They had never danced together – of course – but he led, and it was easy to follow.

As slow seconds went by, and they danced, Shelagh fixed her gaze instead on his shoulder. So long as she kept from raising her eyes to his, she could pretend the situation wasn’t patently romantic. Just so long as she didn’t look up, nothing had happened – or not happened. She wasn’t sure which she was more afraid of.

But she had to look up, eventually. And when she met his eyes, she _couldn’t_ breathe. Or think. Or keep anything from showing on her features. He was staring at her. At her eyes, then at her mouth, and then –

And then, he stopped himself. Suddenly, though his head was already bent towards her. Though she could feel his breath on her face.

“I’m sorry…” he managed, the words ground out with difficulty. “That was…ungentlemanly of me.”  
Shelagh, feeling paralysed, suddenly choked on a bitter, tearful laugh.   
“I wish I minded…”

She pulled back, shaking her head, and he released her the same second. Would she always be such a suggestible fool? Easy to pick up and drop? And _why_ was he looking at her like that?

“What did you say…?” The doctor was staring.

Her eyes downcast, Shelagh shrugged – as if to say _‘Don’t make me say it again’_. Did he really need her to embarrass herself further?

“I thought…” He shook his head. “After the Summer Fete…I thought you were _relieved_ I hadn’t pursued you?”  
Shelagh blinked, entirely off-balance.   
“I was.” She frowned, and then clarified. “In a way. That is, I respected you for it. Which…only created more of a problem. And there was quite a considerable problem to begin with.”

She seemed to run out of breath by the end of the sentence, the words only just coming out. Doctor Turner was _still_ staring at her – and she was beginning to feel the edge of something like hope, creeping up over her disillusionment.

“_Oh_…”

Emotions flashed across the doctor’s face in quick succession. Shock…disbelief…the shadow of a smile…quickly replaced again by astonishment.

“I…didn’t realise. After the way I’d behaved, I wanted you to feel sure that I wasn’t going to…cross any more boundaries. Or…make your life difficult.”  
Shelagh was honestly startled. “I would never have thought that of you!”  
He shrugged uncomfortably. “I hadn’t exactly behaved _well_…”

He looked from her to the floor and back again, and Shelagh felt slightly faint. Did he really…? Had they just…?

He took a breath, and when he spoke, he sounded slightly afraid of his own question.  
“So, when you came back…?”  
Shelagh nodded, smiling sadly. Doctor Turner’s breath came out in a rush.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t want to _presume_. And I knew you’d just been through an enormous upheaval…” He ran a hand through his hair in agitation, and Shelagh’s eyes couldn’t help but follow. He looked wretched. “I didn’t want you to worry that I was…lying in wait. To snatch you up the minute you left the fold. Even if that’s…exactly what I wanted to do.”

Shelagh was very aware of her own breathing.  
“…You did?”  
He frowned, as though the answer should have been obvious.  
“Desperately.”  
“Oh…”

Shelagh _had_ to lower her eyes then. It seemed incongruous to want to smile – she’d been on the verge of tears just seconds earlier. But she _did_ want to. She couldn’t help it. There seemed to be champagne fizzing in her chest.

When she looked up again, Doctor Turner was watching her closely.  
“I’ve been an idiot…”  
Shelagh’s brow creased in sympathy.  
“No, you haven’t.” Then, feeling he _did_ deserve a slightly gentler reprimand, she continued. “You’ve perhaps been…rather too much of a gentleman.”

She realised a split-second later how that sounded, and blushed. The doctor’s mouth tilted up at one corner.

“I could work on that…”

He had moved closer, and was staring at her mouth. Shelagh managed a weak laugh. It came out high and breathy. His gaze flickered up for a moment to her eyes, long enough to gauge that she was willing.

He kissed her once, slowly. And, just as slowly, again. And again… And when he pulled away, Shelagh instinctively leaned forward, as though to follow and prolong it. She might have been embarrassed by that – if, when she opened her eyes, he hadn’t looked so adoring.

He evidently realised that she could think of nothing to say – and politely filled the gap.

“It occurs to me that they’re playing a slow song out there…and I’m kissing the chaperone in the kitchen.”  
Laughter bubbled up inside her. “I _have_ rather abandoned my post…”  
“Well, I hope they’re making the most of it.” He gave her a roguish grin.  
“I don’t think I could begrudge anyone this evening,” Shelagh beamed – her gaze flitting demurely down to his chest and back up to his face again. Then, suddenly, she sobered.  
“Unless they’re actually starting more fights…”

“Hmm.” The doctor frowned, stepping out of her space as he, too, came back to reality. She immediately wished he hadn’t. He looked around absent-mindedly for his jacket, but his gaze was fixed on her as he shrugged it on.

“Once this is over, could I walk you back to Nonnatus? And…well, could I call you, later in the week? I’d like to take you to dinner. Or the pictures. Or, dancing? Preferably all of the above.”

He spoke quickly – nervously almost – and Shelagh felt herself glow. To be kissed and then asked on three dates at once was almost too much to cope with.

“Any of those things would be lovely,” she managed.  
“Good. Excellent. Well…” Doctor Turner tugged his jacket straight. “I’ll, err, see you out there. Oh, and, err…forgive me for mentioning…but, _before_ you go out there, you might want to, erm…refresh your lipstick.” He gestured awkwardly to his lips.  
“Oh!”  
Shelagh’s hand flew to her lips, and again she felt her cheeks flush. She would never even have _thought_ of that. This was a whole new world.  
“Mea culpa,” said the doctor, with a dangerously charming smile. Then he disappeared into the hall.

Shelagh stood, staring into space, for who knew how many seconds. Then she realised that, if she stood there a moment longer, there was a risk she might start helplessly laughing or crying or both. Shaking herself into action, she strode off.

Shelagh’s fingers fumbled slightly with her lipstick as she stood before the mirror in the Ladies’. She had raised it halfway to her lips, when she realised that her hand was shaking. She rolled her eyes.

_Pull yourself together. This happens to people every day. Although_, she thought, with a giddy little smile, _probably not quite so wonderfully_.

Apparently wanting something, and handling it smoothly when it happened were two very different things.

She fixed her lipstick, and turned side-on to examine her appearance. She wished she’d worn something a little more flattering… But then, she reflected, with another foolish smile, Doctor Turner hadn’t seemed to mind.

Smiling once more at the woman in the mirror, Shelagh turned to go.

\--

Patrick tried to control his expression as he stepped out into the main hall. If he went round grinning quite as broadly as he wanted, people would think a schoolboy punch had knocked him giddy. When, in actuality, something else had.

He could still hardly believe it… Though the last few minutes had been the most wonderful proof. He had a half a mind to turn around and go back in there, to catch Shelagh in some doorway, and just check. Check that he hadn’t hallucinated their kisses…

Before he could act on that foolish thought, he was interrupted. Patrick looked up to see a young man approach him, wearing a look of nervous determination. It was one of the lads who’d been in the fight.

“Doctor Turner…I wanted to apologise.”  
Patrick’s face expressed a willingness to listen, and so the boy carried on.  
“I wasn’t aiming for _you_.”  
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “That isn’t _really _the point, now is it, Julian?”  
“S’pose not.” The boy looked down at his feet. “But _what he said_…”   
The shadow of anger crossed his face, and then he looked back up at Patrick, clearly willing him to understand. “And Suzie’s my girl, and, well, you know how it is…”  
Julian then realised he’d made a rather large assumption about the doctor’s private life.  
“I-I mean, presumably…”  
Patrick fought down a chuckle. “You might be surprised. But I try not to go around solving problems with my fists…”  
“Right,” said Julian, nodding regretfully. A few moments’ silence followed – and then he looked up again, eyes twinkling.  
“Though, if that _does_ scar, you never know – it might be a good look for you!”  
“Julian…” Patrick fought to keep his face serious. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Go on with you, now. And _behave_.”  
The boy nodded gratefully, and hurried off.

Patrick shook his head as Julian departed. He should probably have _thanked_ the lad…but that would hardly set a good example.

He gazed round the hall again, full of goodwill for everyone present. Then his heart skipped a beat to see Shelagh re-enter, slipping back into the main hall. Her eyes met his across the dance floor, and she gave him a radiant little smile – then quickly lowered her eyes.

Suddenly, Patrick wanted the dance to be over, so that he could walk her home.

But the young people were still having fun, and he had yet to hand out the spot prizes. He glanced round in search of the organisers, and found them standing not far from the stage.

“Alright, boys and girls,” the organiser called over the microphone, in a break between songs. “Now is your chance to impress Doctor Turner with your very best dancing… There’s a spot prize to be won!”

Those who hadn’t been there already hurried onto the floor, laughing excitedly. Patrick felt, again, the ridiculousness of his being in this situation – but he was much too happy to care. An upbeat song started to play, and he looked around at all the dancers.

Nearby, Lawrence and his choir girl date were loitering at the edge of the floor.  
“Well, _we_ haven’t a hope,” the girl chuckled.  
“So we haven’t got anything to lose. Come on.”  
“What?”  
He grabbed her hand impulsively, and pulled her onto the floor, to her apparent shock.  
“Come _on_!”   
While she stood there laughing in embarrassment, Lawrence started to dance. Her laughter increased – as did everybody else’s in the immediate vicinity. She grabbed his hands to stop him performing one particularly silly dance move – and neglected to let go. Soon they were dancing with the self-conscious ‘unselfconsciousness’ a certain kind of teenager adopts, when they realise they can only be themselves.

Patrick grinned as he looked around the floor. There were some excellent dancers. He smiled to see Sally hand-jiving – if that _was_ indeed what that dance was called – with a cheerful-looking young man. He was tempted to award the prize to the mixed group dancing together – the result of the fight splitting pairs up, he thought. However, the prize was intended for a couple, and so that wouldn’t do.

When the song ended they all broke into applause, many people laughing and out of breath. Patrick took to the stage, an envelope in his hand.

“Well…I can only say I hardly feel qualified to make this decision. I don’t know the names for _half_ of the dances I’ve seen tonight! Special mention has to go to the group dancing in the centre… Though, unfortunately, the prize is a double pass to the cinema, and we can’t split that so many ways. As such, I have to award the prize to that couple in the corner – Lawrence and…Joyce, is it? – for enthusiasm, and apparently knowing every word to that ridiculous song!”

Joyce was blushing scarlet, as Lawrence hurried up to claim the prize. Amongst their more dapper peers a few eyes rolled, but _most_ of the laughter was kind.

There were a few more spot prizes – Patrick awarded ‘Best Dressed’ at random, to a young man with a rather bold tie – and then the evening was winding down. Patrick’s eyes kept finding Shelagh’s across the dancefloor, and by the last slow dance he was ready to shoo all the teenagers out of the hall.

When the crowd finally departed, Patrick was caught in conversation with one of the Brinsley Scholarship organisers. He noticed Shelagh loitering near the refreshment table, tidying stray balloons and paper cups. He’d finally managed to extract himself and wandered over to join her, when Fred Buckle appeared out of nowhere, a box in each hand. Patrick breathed deeply.

“Oh, Doctor. Nurse Mannion. Seeing as you’re here, why don’t you take some of these leftover refreshments? It’s all cream buns and things, and won’t keep.”  
Patrick blinked, uncertain how to act in this strange new context. Did it show on his face, what had happened between them? Shelagh looked much more relaxed than he felt, smiling genially at Fred.  
“That’s very generous of you. I daresay Sister Monica Joan would hate them to go to waste.”  
Fred chuckled. “I have no doubt!”

Loaded up with a small box each, together they left the hall. Patrick thought he saw Fred smiling after them as he swept the floor, and very nearly rolled his eyes. He was going to have to get used to the idea of people knowing how he felt about her. Everything was different now.

The darkened streets were quiet, most of the youth having already wended their ways home. He and Shelagh fell into step, in a way that was deliciously self-conscious, and yet also very natural. She was the first to speak.

“I hope your jaw’s alright?”  
“Hmm? I’d almost forgotten.” Patrick grinned. “One of the boys did come and apologise, though. Actually, I _think_ he tried to imply that any scar would make me look charmingly rakish…”  
Shelagh laughed, coyly ducking her head.   
“I couldn’t possibly comment…”   
Her tone was pleasantly flustered, and Patrick laughed too, from sheer delight. How could _so much_ turn in a single evening?

He would have liked to hold her hand – but perhaps it was good that their hands were both full of boxes. He wasn’t sure how discreet she’d want to be, at least at first.

They walked slowly, but still reached Nonnatus House much too soon. They turned to face each other at the bottom of the steps.  
“Well,” Patrick breathed, smiling down at her, “this has been…quite an evening.”  
The smile she gave him was incandescent. “It certainly has.”  
“I _am_ sorry, about-”  
“Please, stop apologising.”  
Patrick grimaced awkwardly. “Well…” he shrugged. “Alright. You should have a think about whether there’s anything you might like to see at the pictures.”  
Her smile returned then, all the brighter. “I will.”  
“Excellent. Well…goodnight.”  
“Goodnight, Doctor.”  
He laughed. “Please, call me Patrick.”  
“Shelagh…” she returned, with a shy little smile.  
“Yes, I…I know.”  
That was its own sort of tacit admission, and again Shelagh glowed.  
“Goodnight…”  
He watched her to the top of the steps, till she disappeared through the doorway.

When Patrick arrived home, the housekeeper bade him goodnight and told him Timothy was in bed. When Patrick nudged open the door to the boy’s bedroom, light spilling in from the hall, all parental senses told him that a torch and comic book had been stuffed away seconds earlier. He fought back a smile, and put on his best ‘stern father’ voice.

“Have you cleaned your teeth?”  
“_Yes_,” sighed Timothy, in the voice of all put-upon children everywhere.  
“That’s a shame,” said Patrick, lightly. “You’re going to have to do them again…”

He held up the box of cream buns, and watched Timothy’s face light.


	8. Chapter 8

Shelagh went around walking on air after the Brinsley Scholarship Dance. This made keeping her news to herself something of a challenge. Barely a minute after she and Patrick had said their goodnights, she met Sister Julienne in the hallway. Seeing her, the Sister smiled warmly.

“I take it, from the look on your face, that the evening went well?”  
“Oh… Yes, it did.” Shelagh hoped she wasn’t blushing. “The choir did themselves proud.”  
Sister Julienne’s smile brightened further. “I’m glad to hear it.”

She thought she’d got through that well enough. Her fellow nurses were another story.

The next day, she and Cynthia were in their room. They had changed out of their uniforms, and were all ready for dinner. Trixie went past in the hallway, returning from a call. She paused and stared, to find them laughing – much harder than the situation really warranted – at something sleep-deprived Cynthia had done. First Trixie looked confused, and then suspicious.

But Shelagh was feeling too light-hearted to be particularly careful. So when Trixie returned, freshly changed, to walk with them to dinner, she sang under her breath as she drew the curtains.  
“_For love may come and tap you on the shoulder, some starless night. And dum-da-dum_-_da-_”  
She turned to find Trixie leaning in the doorway, a determined expression on her face.

“Alright, spill.”  
Shelagh felt like a deer caught in headlights.   
“What?”  
Trixie rolled her eyes.  
“I’m sorry, Shelagh, but you’re subtle as a brick. Who is he?”

The words _I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about_ were forming on her lips…but they died before she could speak them. That phrase had never worked as well for her as she’d hoped.

Shelagh felt herself going red. “I’m not sure I can tell you…”  
Trixie’s tone was playfully threatening.   
“I _think_ you’ll find you _can_…”   
Cynthia stood in the space between them, her expression just as plainly readable as Shelagh’s. She clearly wanted it on record that _she_ hadn’t been the one to ask…but, now that the subject had been raised…

Trixie came to lean on Cynthia’s shoulder, making it clearly two against one.  
“Look, aside from anything else, we need to be sure he’s the right sort of chap. We can’t have our Shelagh going off with just anyone. Not that you _would_, but you know…we have an interest. So, what’s his name?”

Shelagh took a deep breath.   
“…Patrick.”  
Trixie raised her eyes to the ceiling, apparently considering the potential of a man named Patrick. “Hmm, a good name… Sturdy. Dependable… Promising. And his surname?”  
“Turner.”

Trixie’s mouth dropped open. “Not _Doctor_ Turner?”   
Shelagh nodded, now blushing scarlet – and, though she _was_ embarrassed and uncomfortable, she was unable to keep the smile from her lips.

At this confirmation, Trixie’s astonishment turned to delight.  
“Oh, thank _goodness_! I mean…well, you know… I _do_ have a sense about these things… And just lately – I mean, since you came back – I’d been sure there was _something_. Well…it took him long enough!”  
Shelagh chuckled wryly. “Yes, it did.”

Cynthia was looking at her with a subtle smile. Shelagh suspected her roommate suddenly understood why she’d been so miserable weeks earlier. The warm look they shared was abruptly broken, as Trixie bounded across the space between them to seize Shelagh’s hands.

“Well, where is he taking you? And what are you going to wear?”  
Shelagh blinked at the speed at which they’d moved on, to what were apparently the essentials of the situation. They couldn’t talk for long, however, because they were expected at dinner – and Shelagh begged the girls not to let the Sisters know what had occurred.

“I’ll need to find a way to tell them, in my own time. I’m not sure how Sister Monica Joan will respond... Or Sister Evangelina.”  
Trixie drew herself up. “It’s frankly none of her business!”  
“You seemed certain it was yours,” Shelagh teased her gently. “And we _were_ Sisters…”  
“So? _We’re_ sisters. In uniform, I mean.” Trixie blushed, clearly resisting the urge to backpedal on this earnest pronouncement. “And I _know_ that’s different, I know I can’t really understand, but… Look, if you’re happy – which you so _obviously_ are – and you’re not hurting anyone, then I just fail to see the problem. And I’ll _tell_ that to Sister Evangelina, if she makes a fuss. I’ll tell it to Mother Jesu, if you like.”

Shelagh had to laugh, at the idea of Trixie debating with Mother Jesu. And more than that, she was grateful for the friend she might never have fully appreciated, if things had been different. She leaned her head laughingly on Trixie’s shoulder, and squeezed Cynthia’s hand, and the three of them set off for dinner.

\--

They got through dinner, carefully talking of things that only tangentially related to Doctor Turner. (Even so, Shelagh showed an unusual interest in cutting her dinner into equal squares.) She hadn’t felt normal since the Scholarship Dance. She hadn’t really felt normal _before_ then. Where weeks ago she’d been drained and lovelorn, now she was constantly, pleasantly jittery. What had it been like, she tried to remember, to ever feel bored?

She was at the nurse’s station, ready on call, when the telephone rang a day later.  
“Nonnatus House, midwife speaking…”  
“Nurse Mannion…” The voice was deep and warm. “I was hoping I’d catch you.”

Shelagh bit her lip, smiling, her stomach suddenly all a-flutter. The pause was just long enough for the doctor to feel obliged to correct his statement.   
“Well, to be honest, I snuck a peek at the roster…”   
She laughed breathlessly, and for the sake of saying something, smiled, “I see.”  
“And as such, I know you have Tuesday evening off. So, I wondered…”

He wanted to take her to dinner. He knew a place – nice, though not overly flashy – that he thought she might like.

“I’d be happy to pick you up. Unless of course you’d rather I meet you there…?”  
She smiled against the receiver. She was grateful for his forethought, in allowing for the possibility that she might want to be discreet. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be _secretive_, however – after what Trixie had so well argued.  
“You could pick me up. The other nurses won’t be surprised. I’m afraid Trixie – Nurse Franklin – has already demanded to know why I haven’t been able to stop smiling.”  
“Ah…” She could hear the smile in his voice, and the silence that followed was full of feeling. “So, it’s safe for me to pick you up, then.”  
“Depending on your definition of ‘safe’. So long as you don’t mind being the cause of a few giggles…?”  
“I think I’ll cope. Given the enticement.”  
She laughed a little breathlessly again.  
“So,” Patrick confirmed, “six o’clock, Tuesday?”

That gave her a deadline for when to tell the Sisters. Shelagh was glad of that, even if it also made her nervous.

She walked past Sister Julienne’s office door at least ten times before she could make herself go in. When she did, the Sister looked up from her paperwork and smiled.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Sister. I just wanted to let you know…I won’t be at Nonnatus for dinner on Tuesday. I’m having dinner with a friend.”   
Under Sister Julienne’s mild, steady smile, her rehearsed speech began to falter.  
“I…thought I should let you know…so that Mrs. B can adjust accordingly.”

Sister Julienne’s expression showed the faintest flicker of amusement.  
“Thank you for thinking of that. If I may, I’ll tell the other Sisters… Sister Monica Joan may wish to claim your pudding.”  
“O-of course…”

Shelagh wondered why they were still discussing household economy, when that had really only been a weak veneer. Apparently there was nothing else to say, however – Sister Julienne was smiling as though the conversation had ended.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your work. Thank you, Sister.”  
Her hand was on the door.  
“Shelagh?”  
She turned back again, feeling a nervous lurch in her stomach. But Sister Julienne was still smiling – even more warmly than before.  
“I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

\--

Tuesday seemed to take forever to arrive – and also, somehow, no time at all. Shelagh was quietly praying that all of Poplar – in fact, all of East London – would have exceptionally good health, just for one night. She had never been so deeply invested in her night off.

Jenny and Trixie and Cynthia all returned home from their calls in time to help Shelagh get ready, for which she was grateful. She really only had the one evening-appropriate dress, but Cynthia was adamant it suited her. And after the plain outfit she’d worn to the Scholarship Dance, she was glad for the chance for Patrick to see her in something she’d chosen more carefully.

“Gorgeous,” Jenny beamed, encouragingly. “Now all you need is perfume.”  
“I don’t actually have any.” Shelagh’s brow creased. “I hadn’t quite got around to-”  
Jenny and Trixie moved as one, without a word between them, to rifle through their drawers and dressing tables. Cynthia dashed down the hall to fetch hers too, so that Shelagh could choose from a full selection.

As six o’clock neared, Shelagh reminded the girls that they should really be getting along to the dining room.   
“Oh,” Trixie smiled sweetly, “I’m in no rush. Actually, you know, I’ve just remembered – I need to do some filing. At the nurse’s station. Quite near the front door.”  
“_Trixie_!”

But her fellow nurse was immovable. When there came a knock at the door, Trixie hurried to answer it, ‘nonchalantly looking up’ from a clipboard in her hand.  
“Oh, good evening, Doctor Turner…”   
She might as well have been holding the clipboard upside down, for all the convincingness of this display.  
“Nurse Franklin…” The doctor smiled levelly, his amusement evident.

Half-amused herself, and half quietly furious, Shelagh hurried forward – and felt her embarrassment melt away at the breathless smile Patrick gave her. She smiled too, hardly caring if she was obviously starry-eyed in front of Trixie.

“Shall we?” Patrick offered her his arm.

As the door shut behind them, Shelagh could make out distant giggles from Jenny and Cynthia. They had clearly wanted to see her off as well – but had been slightly less brazen about it than Trixie.

It was a wonderful evening. Just as Patrick had told her, the restaurant was nice, without being pretentious – and they had a chance to talk, at length, for the first time in months. Subjects ranged from their colleagues, to their respective medical training, to the choir and their histories with music.

“My best friend at school was in the brass band,” Patrick told her. “And at the beginning of _every term_, he’d put my name down on the sign-up list. I’d have to come in with a pencil and cross off ‘Patrick Turner, instrument: triangle’.”  
Shelagh laughed – and even more so when discussion turned to whether her choir might benefit from triangle backing.  
“Are you volunteering, Doctor?”  
Patrick gave a helpless sort of shrug. “If _you_ asked…”  
She only stopped laughing when the waiter came to offer them dessert.

After dinner, they had a short drive back to Poplar, and Patrick walked her to the front steps.   
“Well…” he smiled. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”  
“Thank _you_.”  
His sudden closeness made her head swim. She remembered so vividly their kisses in the kitchen… Patrick seemed to be thinking along similar lines.

“I’d like to kiss you…” he murmured, little more than a whisper. “But I’m afraid Nurse Franklin might be at a window with binoculars.”  
Attraction and two glasses of wine conspired to make Shelagh bold.  
“You should probably have thought of that earlier.”  
Patrick blinked, slightly bowled over by this unexpected candour. Then he breathed a flustered laugh, and let his gaze linger on her mouth quite deliberately.  
“I promise I won’t make the same mistake twice…”

Shelagh felt her temperature rise, and her bravado suddenly deserted her. She laughed shyly as her cheeks began to flush. “Goodnight, Patrick.”  
He grinned as she stepped away, clearly enjoying the effect he had on her.   
“Goodnight, Miss Mannion.”


	9. Chapter 9

The choir did not meet for a fortnight after the dance. Shelagh had thought it advisable to give them a short break – and the next time she had them all gathered together, she felt as though a longer time had gone by.

“Now, quiet, girls. I want to congratulate you on your performance at the Scholarship Dance. I trust you all enjoyed your evening...”  
There were a few giggles, and Debbie nudged Joyce, who valiantly pretended not to notice.

“And how are all the choir girls?” Patrick asked, as they stepped out from Nonnatus. It was a grey, dismal evening – threatening showers – perfect for an evening at the pictures. And amid a busy week, this had been the only time together they could snatch.  
“Oh, they’re their usual exuberant selves,” Shelagh smiled. The doctor chuckled.

Their steps quickened slightly as they hurried in the direction of the cinema. They hadn’t left themselves too much time. Patrick still looked amused, and thoughtful.  
“Dare I ask if they know about me yet?”  
Shelagh gave him an apologetic smile.  
“It’s not the kind of thing one drops lightly into conversation. What am I supposed to say?” Her tone switched to a self-mocking sing-song. “‘Oh, by the way girls, I’m walking out with the doctor – in case you’d like something _else_ to giggle about’.”  
Patrick laughed, and glanced across at her, charmed by her turn of phrase.  
“‘Walking out’? Is _that_ what we’re doing…” he teased.  
Shelagh gave him a look. But not for long, because just at that moment, the clouds broke.

Patrick _had_ had the foresight to bring an umbrella – but they didn’t dare stop walking for long enough for him to get it open. He seemed to struggle with it.  
“Useless thing…”

Looking about, half-squinting through the rain, Patrick caught her arm suddenly.  
“Here!”  
He pulled her down a side-street, to where a canopy covered a shop door tucked away in a little alcove. Once they were under its cover, Shelagh reached to take the umbrella from his hands. She wondered whether it was in need of repair. But Patrick pulled it gently away.  
“It works fine, actually. I just wanted…”

There wasn’t much space in the alcove, but he was closer even than he needed to be. And he was looking intently down at her.   
“Oh…”

He was _so_ close then, all of a sudden, that her hands had to go somewhere. They settled on his chest. She could feel the warmth of him through damp wool beneath her fingers. There were raindrops in his hair. When Patrick spoke again, his voice had turned slightly husky.  
“And, as I recall, last time I made you a promise…”

She couldn’t even have said _‘Oh…’ _at that point. Not without clearing her throat. She closed her eyes instead.

His lips found hers, and now she was brave enough to properly kiss him back. She’d had to wait long enough for it. Her fingers tightened on his lapels as long seconds passed, and by the time they drew apart she was distinctly breathless.

“Hadn’t we better go?”  
She wasn’t sure which one of them this was meant to convince. Patrick’s hands tightened on her waist just slightly. “There are other films…” he murmured.  
She laughed, flattered and half-willing to be convinced, but smiled as she pulled away.   
“I want to see _this_ one.”  
“Well, alright.”   
His eyes were full of humour, and perhaps a little smugness at having engineered them that chance. He opened the umbrella – easily – and they stepped back out into the rain.

They were a few minutes late arriving at the cinema. The opening credits were already playing as they found their way in the dark to their seats. Shelagh apologised sincerely in whispers as people pulled their knees back to let them pass.

The film turned out to be fairly good, though Shelagh wouldn’t have minded if it had been dreadful. Patrick held her hand from the moment they were seated, tracing feather-light caresses on her palm. She hoped Cynthia wouldn’t press for too many details on the film’s narrative – she was fairly sure she’d missed at least one crucial plot point.

When the lights came up, they stood with the rest of the audience to file out of their rows. Patrick had her coat folded over his arm, ready to help her into it. As they stepped out into the aisle, they nearly collided with a young couple – who turned out to be Joyce and Lawrence.

The teenagers immediately dropped each other’s hands, but Patrick couldn’t hide Shelagh’s coat. (Nor did he apparently have any desire to – he was barely managing not to laugh.) Joyce had gone red, looking helplessly at her choir mistress as they stood trapped together in the crowd.

“Joyce…”  
“Miss Mannion…”  
“Lawrence,” said Patrick, nodding sociably to the boy. He smiled awkwardly in return.  
“Did you enjoy the film?” Shelagh asked, her tone slightly desperate.  
“Oh, yes, it was…very good.”  
“Thank you for the tickets,” added Lawrence, smiling again in Patrick’s direction – and Shelagh suddenly remembered his awarding them the double pass as a spot prize. He seemed unperturbed by his role in their current predicament.

Finally the crowd parted enough for them to go on their way, and the teenagers hurried off with hasty goodbyes. The second they were gone, Patrick started to laugh. Blushing, Shelagh smacked his shoulder.

“Stop laughing! Well, now I _have_ to tell the girls. I can’t expect Joyce to keep that sort of secret. Not when the other girls would so like to know.”  
Patrick tried to take the pragmatic view.  
“On the bright side, at least they didn’t catch us kissing.”  
Shelagh raised her eyebrows. “Thank heaven for small mercies…”  
She kept a straight face for all of two seconds – then started to laugh too, leaning her head against his shoulder.

After that, they only kissed in places where choir girls would be very unlikely to see them. Like Patrick’s living room. And Patrick’s half-lit hall.

Shelagh knew the girls had found out the next time she walked into choir practice. The knowing way they smiled gave it away. They didn’t make any cheeky comments, however. Shelagh was grateful for that – and wondered whether Joyce might’ve put her foot down.

She started to drop the phrase “Doctor Turner and I” into conversation, to the girls’ thinly-veiled delight. Still, they kept a respectful silence on the subject – within her hearing, at least.

This was why Shelagh particularly enjoyed walking into the hall one day with something sparkling on her finger. She went straight to the piano, as always, and began sorting her music – but Debbie had the eyes of a hawk.

“Miss…” she said, slowly, staring. “What is _that_?”  
Shelagh glanced nonchalantly down at her hand.  
“It’s an engagement ring,” she replied, matter-of-factly.

The resulting squeals occurred at a pitch that couldn’t have been good for anyone’s voices. (And absolutely no one cared.)

Suddenly the choir were clustered around her. Marie – the most confident – grabbed her hand, and the others pressed close to see.  
“Oh, congratulations!”  
“Very elegant…and not too flashy.” (Marie was apparently an authority on the subject.)  
“Doctor Turner has _very_ good taste.”

Shelagh beamed, laughing fondly at their expressions.  
“Well, thank you, girls. But now, I’m sure you’re all _impatient_ to get to grips with our new piece…”  
The girls gave her long-suffering looks, but settled down as best as they were able.

Shelagh smiled as she turned to the sheet music she’d brought from Nonnatus. It seemed a perfectly appropriate choice. Suitable for any time of year…but especially since it was not so very far from Christmas. The days were flying by.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end! Thank you to everyone who has followed this story. I hope you've enjoyed! And thank you again to my betas, @ginchy and @fourteen-teacups, whose support and encouragement have been so highly-valued.
> 
> One thing: here in the epilogue, I touch on Patrick's worldview. I know that everyone will have their own thoughts about what Patrick feels and believes -- this is simply my interpretation. Thank you for reading. <3

Patrick’s hands were thrust in his coat pockets as he set off from the surgery. The evening air was cold and crisp, and he had forgotten his gloves. It was only a fortnight to Christmas.

And less than that – less than that – to their wedding day.

He had been busy all day, as had Shelagh. But he’d promised he would meet her in the evening at All Saints’ Church. The choir were preparing to sing at the Christmas Eve service, and Shelagh had wanted to rehearse them at least once in the space. As he climbed the steps to the open doors, he could make out the melodic echo of voices.

Patrick adjusted his scarf as he stepped over the threshold. The choir were gathered in front of the altar, Shelagh before them, and the elderly church pianist to one side. She had come in that night especially, he remembered Shelagh saying. This song apparently required accompaniment.

Patrick hovered at the back of the church. They hadn’t finished, and he didn’t want to intrude. But he felt awkward just standing there, so slipped into the very back pew.

A space so large might easily have swallowed up their voices, and some of the girls did look daunted – or perhaps just cold. But they sounded good. Beautiful. Their voices spiralled upwards to the ceiling, the rippling notes of the piano underneath. And then there was Shelagh – conducting with the graceful movements of her hands he was by now so well-used to admiring. He could imagine the calm on her face, though he was too far back to see it.

Patrick knew very little religious music – save for Christmas carols, and the hymns he remembered from childhood. He knew quite enough Latin, however, to understand this constant refrain.

_Dona nobis pacem, pacem  
Dona nobis pacem_

Taking it all in – the words, the music, the scents of Christmas pine and polished wood – Patrick wondered to himself. To think _he’d_ be standing at the altar, in a matter of days. Before Shelagh, he would not have guessed it.

He and Marianne had wed in a registry office, not long after the war ended. While he suspected that, in her heart of hearts, she might have preferred a church wedding, Marianne had put up a good show of wanting to marry no more grandly than her friends had done. (Their wartime weddings had been even sparser.) And for Patrick it had been a relief, making that promise in a civil, legal setting where he felt he had every right to be.

Now… Well, he would marry Shelagh anywhere she wanted, and of course the church meant so much to her. There had never been any question where their wedding would take place. But exactly how he _felt_ about it – the setting, and his place in it – Patrick was still privately figuring out.

It wasn't that he couldn't see the beauty in the building – or even what it stood for, come to that. He knew that to others it meant something more, but he could see it as a place of community. And in the architecture, he saw a fundamentally human impulse at work. People striving to recreate the beauty they saw in the natural world, through masonry, metalwork, woodwork, stained glass... That striving towards knowledge was at the heart of medicine, too. Seeking knowledge and skill where, in the past, there had been ignorance and fear.

Patrick had seen what ignorance and fear could lead to, in wartime hospitals and bomb-filled skies. And in cramped houses, where women bled and wept and sometimes died, because they’d been taught there were things you should not speak of.

Those dark things would always stand between him and belief, if he’d had any inclination to begin with. Which, in all honesty, he hadn’t. But here and now, there were these girls and Shelagh, in the dark of midwinter…singing of peace. Amid stained glass, and flowers, and the _best_ of human intentions. If there was more than that here, in what was called a holy place, Patrick didn’t personally need to see it. There was enough beauty in what he _could_ see – and enough hope – that reservations could be set to one side.

What was marriage, after all, but a kind of reaching out? Its own sort of striving?

_Dona nobis pacem, pacem  
Dona nobis pacem_

He could not clear his throat without drawing attention, so blinked hard for a few moments.

The song ended soon after, closing with a high note from the piano. Shelagh turned to the elderly pianist, and smiled.  
“Thank you, Mrs. Jamieson. Thank you, girls. You should all be proud of yourselves.”

Joanne had been looking beyond Shelagh’s shoulder, into the half-lit rows of pews. She smiled knowingly. “Your fiancé is here, Miss Mannion.”

They had all known him since childhood as ‘Doctor Turner’ – but now the girls took every opportunity to call him ‘your fiancé’, teasing Shelagh and delighting in her happiness. She turned, scanning the pews for where he sat, and her face lit up at the sight of him.

The choir were growing restless now, aware they’d be free to go any minute. Shelagh turned back to face them, and addressed the group.

“Well, then… I’ll see you all here on Christmas Eve.”  
“At which point we’d better remember not to call you ‘Miss Mannion’!”  
The girls tittered, and Shelagh smiled indulgently.  
“I’ll be sure to remind you. Now, off you go. And look after your voices!”

As a group, the choir hurried up the aisle, giving Patrick nods and smiles as they passed. (Sally’s was particularly sincere.) They were already absorbed in conversation.

“Why don’t we all go and get hot chocolate? Auntie Bev sent my Christmas money early.”  
“Lucky for some!”  
“That’s a plan, then? All of us?”  
“Joyce, why are you looking like that? Let me _guess_…you were going to meet Lawrence.”  
“He _did_ say he might-”  
“Well, he can tag along. He’s not a bad sort. But if he takes you to _one_ more film we’d been planning to see, I will personally challenge him to fisticuffs. And you know I’d win.”  
“Only because he’s a gentleman.”

They all erupted into giggles, and Patrick thought for a moment Shelagh might shush them – but they were practically out of the door. Smiling, he walked slowly down the aisle towards her.

Shelagh was thanking the pianist again, as she folded her sheet music away. Mrs. Jamieson nodded politely to Patrick as she left, leaving him with the choir mistress.

“They’re sounding wonderful,” he smiled warmly.  
“They _are_…and they’ve worked hard for it.”  
The glow of pride in her girls lit Shelagh’s features, even as she tried to look modest. He admired the fall of light on her hair.  
“_You’ve_ worked hard for it, too. On top of planning a wedding.”  
“Oh, that,” Shelagh laughed.

(Not that she’d been planning their wedding _alone_. As her bridesmaids, Trixie, Jenny, and Cynthia apparently had a number of useful opinions. And whatever fears Shelagh might’ve had about the Sisters’ reactions, they proved to be unfounded. It had been kind and clever of his bride-to-be, Patrick thought, to consult Sister Monica Joan on the subject of the wedding cake. To subtly let the Sisters know their opinions were still greatly valued. They would attend the wedding, along with everyone else.)

Though Shelagh was very obviously happy, she did look a little tired. And cold. Patrick glanced back up the aisle, to where the choir had departed.  
“Hot chocolate doesn’t sound like such a bad idea… What do you say? I won’t tell Tim if you don’t.” He winked. “But let me take you to a different café than wherever the girls are going… They’ve seen me mooning over you quite enough already.”  
“Patrick…”  
This, he had learned, what was she said when she was pleased, and couldn’t think of anything else to say. He smiled as she gathered up her handbag.

They paused another moment once she was ready – looking at the place where, in a few days, they would stand. Patrick knew that, in that moment, they were thinking some variation on the same thing.

Then, his hand on the small of her back, they stepped out into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you think! Comments are very welcome.
> 
> Also, feel free to say hi on Tumblr: @wednesdaygilfillian


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